


Operation Corporate

by LCWells



Series: Voyage To The Bottom of The Sea [1]
Category: Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
Genre: Falkland Wars, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-08 10:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 55,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10385025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells
Summary: When Chip Morton comes down in cholera during a trip to the Antarctic, he and Doc Jamieson are off-loaded from the Seaview at Port Stanley in the Falklands for a flight back to the U.S. Unfortunately, it's a day before the Argentinians invade the islands.Since this is the 35th anniversary of that war, I thought I'd post it. This was first published in a printed fanzine in 1994.(I apologize for any typos since I am OCRing this in. I'll fix as I go along.)





	1. March 30, 1982

March 30, 1982

There were only six men working the night watch in _Seaview_ 's control room. The muted flash of the nuclear reactor display flickered off the polished chrome of the walls though the room was bathed in red light to preserve night vision. Slight shivers shook the submarine as it plowed the heavy currents of the South Atlantic Sea.

The sonar operator, Kowalski, yawned as he half-heartedly watched the empty circular display. Farther down the long room, another technician, Patterson, checked the reactor dials and made a note on his clipboard. Two men sat at the navigation controls while at the far end of the room, Sparks, the radio officer, frowned as he tuned his instruments.

The new equipment had been working erratically for most of the voyage, only picking up partial messages.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kowalski saw Mister Morton, _Seaview_ 's executive officer, fold his hands behind his neck and stretch, then rub his face. He walked beyond the chart table into the wide-open area of the observation nose, where there was a table and chairs and the Flying Sub hatch, and lean on the table with his back to the sonar operator.

The rating had a deep respect for the XO. Lieutenant Commander Morton had been one of the original officers on _Seaview_ when she was first launched over a decade earlier and the submarine had never had a different Exec except when Mister Morton was on leave or in sickbay. His longevity had bred a bond between the crew and the officer which was never acknowledged but which all knew was there. Personally Kowalski thought that any man who underestimated the slender, athletic Morton was in for a shock. The Exec could out-think most of the officers in the regular U.S. Navy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morton return to the chart table, still facing away from Kowalski, and bend over to make a mark. The rating looked down at the sonar.

Something blipped on the periphery of its range.

"Mister Morton?" he called softly. No answer and, out of the corner of his eye, he didn't see the khaki-clad officer coming toward him.

The operator looked back, and then spun around in his chair.

The exec was face-down on the chart table. The marker slid from his hand. Then the tall body folded as it hit the metal deck.

"Mister Morton!" Kowalski yelped, pulling off his headset. He crossed the few feet between them in a split second.

The officer's face was pale and sweaty, and he breathed in short shallow gasps, gagging uncontrollably. Kowalski pulled the microphone off the periscope island and clicked the buttons. "Sick Bay!"

"Sick Bay. " The medical technician sounded bored.

"This is Kowalski! Mister Morton's just collapsed! Get someone -- "

"On my way." The new voice was reassuring. Despite the late hour, the ship's doctor, William Jamieson, hadn't been asleep.

Kowalski looked around at the others gathered in a loose semi-circle around Morton. "Did anyone see anything?"

Everyone shook their heads.

Patterson who was beside the fallen man, shook his head. "I don't think this is a good sign, 'Ski." He pulled free Morton's black tie and undid the top button of the khaki uniform shirt.

"What?"

"He's burning up with fever."

There was a clatter as Jamieson, followed by his senior corpsman, Parker, ran into the control room. The sailors backed away enough to give the lanky, lantern-jawed doctor room to kneel down beside the prone man.

Jamieson frowned as he felt for Morton's pulse. "What the hell happened?" he asked, abstractedly looking around at the assembled company.

"He just collapsed," Kowalski offered. "He was over by the windows, came back to the table, and collapsed."

The doctor frowned. "You'd better call the Captain, Kowalski."

"Yes, sir. " The rating tapped the microphone again. "Captain? Captain Crane?"

After a couple of seconds, he heard a sleepy growl. "What?"

" Captain, this is Kowalski. Mister Morton's collapsed --"

"What? I'm coming." This time Crane's voice sounded more lively.

Morton shivered convulsively, and gagged, though nothing came up. Jamieson grabbed his shoulder, frowning as his hands touched sweat-soaked cloth. "Didn't anyone notice anything? He's been sweating for quite a while."

"I saw him rubbing his face but I thought he was just tired," Kowalski offered.

"We'd better --" the doctor broke off as they heard the sound of quick footsteps and Captain Lee Crane clattered down the spiral staircase just beyond the chart table.

From the look on Crane's face, Kowalski suspected the Captain had been sound asleep. The dark curly hair was uncombed and the blue bathrobe was hastily thrown over crumpled white silk pajamas.

"Doc?" Crane barked.

The doctor looked up and shook his head. "I don't know yet, Captain. Let's get to Sick Bay. Parker, take his head, Kowalski, grab his feet."

The corpsman slid his hands under Morton's armpits and lifted while Kowalski took the feet. The sick man didn't even murmur as they carried him out.

Crane looked after them, his jaw taut with tension. He glanced around at the four men who faced him.

"Sparks? "

"I didn't see anything, Captain," the dark-haired officer replied. "I was in the radio shack till I heard the uproar."

"All right. Wake O'Brien up, will you? Tell him to get down here as soon as he can," Crane ordered.

"Yes, sir. "

"The rest of you, get back to your posts." Crane watched the two helmsmen sit behind the controls, then walked over to where Patterson had sat down in Kowalski's abandoned chair. "Did you see what happened?"

"No, sir," the technician said, spreading his hands. "Mister Morton was on the deck by the time I got there and Kowalski was yelling to get the Doc."

"He didn't say anything? Mister Morton, that is," Crane persisted.

"No, sir. What do you think it is?"

His gaze on the door, the Captain shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe a flu bug or something more. Thanks, Patterson."

“Yes, Sir.” The crewman acknowledged the dismissal and slid on the headset as he looked at the sonar display.

"Captain!" Sparks called as he leaned over the periscope island.

"Yes?"

"Mister O'Brien will be here soon, sir."

"Very good. Thanks, Sparks," Crane acknowledged with a slight fleeting smile. The radio officer nodded in understanding and returned to this work.

Crane turned back to the chart table, automatically checking the submarine's position against the map markings. He paused for a second when he saw Morton’s pencil had left a long streak on the chart, then reached down and picked up the stub.

_What the hell was wrong with Chip? It couldn't be anything serious or Morton would have told me about it, wouldn’t he? Something he picked up last week in Argentina, perhaps? He into a drinking contest with those Argentines to get his guys out of jail. I spent a lot of money bailing mine out, but Chip had to do it the hard way. Of course, Kowalski and the others brought him back safely and he claimed the hangover was worth it, but it wasn’t Chip's best idea. What could be wrong now?_

"Sir!" Kowalski asked unexpectedly behind him.

Lee realized he had been staring out the glass nose of the submarine, turning the marker over and over in his hands. He turned to face Kowalski. "Yes?"

"The doctor would like you to come to Sick Bay as soon as possible."

"Why didn't he call? " Crane questioned.

"He had his hands full with Mister Morton, sir, and told me to get you." Kowalski said uncomfortably.

Crane frowned. "His hands full?" Besides his chief assistant, Parker, Doc had at least two other corpsmen. Jamieson shouldn't be overworked. The Captain felt a chill go down his spine.

"Yes, sir. Mister Morton threw up all over the Doc -- "

"Very well, Kowalski, thanks."

Crane turned to the navigation system. By the time he had gotten the latest coordinates and checked the course, Lieutenant O'Brien was in the Control Room ready to take over, though he looked surprised to see Crane, still in his pajamas, wearing a grim frown, and no trace of Mister Morton.

Lee turned over the conn and headed for sickbay.

He was assailed by the smell of fresh vomit and diarrhea when he opened the door. "Good lord? What is it?" Crane demanded. "What's wrong?”

The doctor looked up with a grim expression, holding up his hands. "Keep back from us. He's very sick and going to get worse. When do we reach port?"

"We're due to pick up the Admiral at Palmer Station in a week or so. Why? What's the matter?" Crane looked around at the empty room. He and Jamieson were the only occupants. "Where are the corpsmen?"

"I've ordered them away from here. This is contagious." Jamieson looked at Chip's prostrate form, held to the gurney with straps to keep him from pulling out the intravenous tubes, and shook his head in dismay.

"What is it?"

"Cholera."

 

Admiral Harriman Nelson tightened the neck of his black parka and pulled up the fur-hood, tying it more tightly over his auburn hair. An icy wind caught at his stocky form as he descended from the seaplane and scanned the snowy beach, sheltering his eyes from the late afternoon sunshine. After almost five months of constant light, the sun was setting over Antarctica, summer yielding to the cold bitter winter months. Behind him the seaplane's engine roared into life as the plane took off across the inlet.

"Admiral." A man bundled in a bulky dark-blue parka decorated with an American insignia, raised his arm to wave.

"Doctor Grant?" Nelson acknowledged the hail with a raised gloved hand. He took a firmer grip on the briefcase in his hand and began to climb over the rocky sand. To one side the wooden ice-breaker, Hero, rocked at its moorings alongside the half-completed jetty.

Awaiting him on the higher ground was Doctor Paul Grant, Ph.D., a noted marine biologist who was the top Antarctic specialist in American scientific circles. Standing in the shade of two buildings that made up the bulk of Palmer Base, Grant’s stocky figure seemed smaller than the Admiral remember from their last meeting. The scientist was buried in an over-sized parka and heavy snow boots despite the fact that Palmer had been built on one of the most temperate spots on the peninsula.

"Hope you had a good trip. Let's get inside?" Grant led the way inside the first building. The two-story Biolab held laboratories, storage areas building had the power plant storage rooms, library and meeting places. Nelson followed Grant down a long corridor, seeing closed door with toast hanging on them, hearing some laughter and the sound of a radio playing popular music from behind one door.

Grant led the Admiral into a secluded office and shut the door behind them. "You picked a lonesome time to come south.“

“You’re acting like I’m doing something illegal down here," Nelson commented putting his briefcase on the wooden table that ran between two chairs. Like most of the Antarctic Bases, Palmer tried for the homey touch and failed miserably. Though it had hot water showers and a pool table for entertainment, the base was dominated by utilitarian furniture made to withstand immense cold. Not much had changed in the years of the first explorations of the Antarctic ice cap.

"Not illegal, so to say, but I have a hard time believing Admiral Nelson of the Nelson Institute of Marine Research and _Seaview_ 's creator is simply down here to see my biological studies," Grant said, shrugging off his parka and sitting in the cracked leather swivel chair. He ran his hands over his thick silver grey hair that hung untidily around his collar. Around his eyes squint lines were etched in weathered, sun-tanned skin. "I know what your message said, Harriman. Now tell me the truth."

The Admiral eyed him for a second, then glanced at the closed door. “How many people are down here, Paul?"

"Right now? We've got capacity for between thirty-five or forty but most of them have gone home now that summer's over. I'd say... well, when John's band comes back, we'll have about twenty. In a day or so, most of them will be gone on the . We’re only planning on having ten here this winter. Why? "

Nelson shrugged out of his dark parka, feeling a chill as the cool air of the Biolab penetrated through the wool shirt and sweater he had underneath. He sat down in the other chair, and opened his briefcase. "Well, despite your skepticism, I am here about your biological studies and funding... but that's not all." He paused, hearing a high whine outside as the building shook slightly.

"Don't let it worry you, Admiral," Grant said reassuringly. "There's a storm coming in off the Drake Passage. Happens all the time this time of year. The temperature will freeze up water around the ice cap and give us some new bergs."

"Is the weather going to prevent your people from leaving?" Nelson asked bluntly.

"I don't believe so," Grant replied. "Hope not. Some of them don't handle cabin fever well. How well do you handle it, Admiral?"

Nelson grinned. "I've spent most of my career on submarines, Paul. This building is roomy compared with most of them."

"I hear _Seaview_ has lots of room," Grant questioned curiously. "Biggest submarine ever built."

"I'm not so sure about that," the Admiral prevaricated. "But it'll be down here in a week or so, and I'll give you a tour. By the way, Paul, what is the meaning of the toast on the doors?"

Puzzled, the scientist frowned, then laughed. "Oh, the toast! It's a psych measure passed  from researcher to researcher for generations."

"What are you talking about?"

"The darker the toast, the more eager they are to leave. Charcoal and I send them out. This prevents them from losing face by admitting they can't hack the ice anymore since I've got warning before they break. It's a management technique I learned from the last commander my first winter-over." He leaned back with a huge grin to see how the Admiral would take this.

"And how dark is your bread, Paul?" Nelson needled.

"Still Wonder Bread white, but we'll see in a couple of months. This'll be my third winter-over. By the end, I might be like that poor guy over at Faraday who walked out onto the ice and never came back. " Despite his light tone, Nelson could see Grant was deadly serious. Cabin fever had brought down too many scientists in Antarctica over the years since the first bases, and with the storms that came in off the Scotia Sea and the Drake Passage, the chances of getting back to civilization in case of trouble went down precipitously. Grant had been designated the head of Palmer not only for his scientific talents but for the fact that he could stand the endless darkness of the Antarctic ice cap.

"Call us. _Seaview_ will haul you out," he said impulsively, then wondered about that rash promise. The submarine wasn't going to be down here that long.

"I might just take you up on that. Now what brings you to Palmer Base, Admiral?" Grant asked hitching himself forward.

Nelson pulled out a stack of papers from the briefcase. "Do you remember the last time we met, Paul?"

"At the United Nations conference on the Antarctic," Grant said comfortably. "A year and a half ago."

"Yes. The U.N. has come up with the final document on the Law of the Sea," Nelson said, tapping his fingers on the stack of paper.

"Excellent! It's been seven years, hasn't it?" Grant reached forward but the Admiral laid his hand flat on the typewritten text.

"Just about. The United States had decided to not ratify the treaty."

The scientist stared at him in astonishment. "But...why?"

Nelson pounded his fist on the paper. "Primarily because of the dispute over mining and mining rights in the Antarctic."

"Well, don't look at me to support the miners?" Grant said frowning at Nelson. "This is fairly pristine country right now and I don't really want to see it strip mined. "

"It’s not that so much as the ocean seabed. As you probably know, _Seaview_ 's mission is to thoroughly explore the area around the South Sandwich Trench -- "

"For the miners?" Grant said incredulously.

"The British and our own Administration want a survey of the general area for minerals," Nelson replied in as neutral a tone as possible. "They want it looked at before the Russians get it."

Grant waved his hand as if brushing away an irritating fly. "The Russians. Admiral, the Soviet scientists are interested in ice core samples and spores. I'm sure they have their KGB spy but he's probably got frostbite."

"Still, one of Washington's primary interests is in minerals like cobalt, manganese, and copper, They have more interest in that than in your fossil studies, Paul! "

Grant's face brightened. "But they should be interested in the fossils, Harriman. It's the biggest discovery --"

"You can tell me about it later," the Admiral cut him off ruthlessly. "Over supper and after you've read the treaty."

The scientist looked distastefully at the pile of paper. "Why do I have to read it?"

"Because if I can find another reason for the government not to sign except for naked greed on the part of the mining establishment and Washington, I'll propose we use it!" Nelson said in a frustrated tone.

Grant shrugged, his weathered face sympathetic. "Money is the plasma of scientific research, Admiral. Without it we'd be helpless. If I thought the miners were going to give some of their cash to research, I'd be a little more sympathetic. The other scientists on base have been looking forward to your arrival, Harriman. You're seen as a font of research grants! "

The Admiral laughed. "I know where to find money if that's what they're after."

"You're going to visit a couple of the other stations, right?" Grant asked, standing. "Faraday's a day's journey forty miles to the south."

"That's the British station, right? I understand they're planning some kind of research on the Cap," Nelson asked, closing his briefcase.

Grant shrugged. "They have a couple of small Otters but we'll see what's left after the storms."

"Would I be able to stay there for a couple of days to talk over the Treaty and look over their work," the Admiral asked.

The scientist laughed, his breath forming a mist in front of his bearded chin.

"Admiral, they'd be honored. Charles Temple runs Faraday. He's has been trying to get more international attention for his krill studies for years! I really don't know how he keeps himself in funds. "

"What does he know about mineral rights?"

"A lot. There's more to Temple than meets the eye," Grant commented meaningfully.

Nelson raised an eyebrow in curiosity but the scientist didn't go on. "Really? I look forward to meeting him."

"I'm sure he'll feel the same. Now, I'll read and you go upstairs and settle in. " The scientist pulled over the stack of papers and settled back.

"Right."


	2. April 1, 1982

Port Stanley sat on the easternmost tip of East Falkland island. The mostly treeless island, along with its companion, West Falkland, were the largest islands of a two-hundred-isle archipelago forty miles from the tip of Argentina.

The small town didn't impress Captain Crane as he surveyed it from beside the sail's open hatch. The pale April sunshine dulled the wooden one-story weather-beaten buildings that dated back to before the Second World War and the paint was peeling on Seaview's jetty. It had been an interesting job piloting the massive submarine up to the pier where heavy waves smashed the rubber bumpers that the Chief and Kowalski had rigged.

Crane rubbed his face, feeling tension in his jaw which had kept his teeth clenched even during his fitful sleep. He and O'Brien had split the shifts with the other two command officers, but general stress had drained most of Crane's energy. As soon as he saw the severity of Morton's condition, he had ordered _Seaview_ to divert to the Falklands, knowing there was a hospital there. The thick thigh-length deck jacket he wore was little protection against a piercing, freezing South Atlantic wind. He estimated the wind at about fifteen knots and eyed with trepidation a bank of grey clouds above the low rocky hills that rolled behind the small city, forecasting an incoming storm. His ears tingled with cold under his uniform cap.

"I've heard that the normal temperature for the Islands this time of year is below freezing," a voice observed. "So this must be warm. " Jamieson joined him, his tall lanky form wrapped in a long bridge coat, the epaulets on each shoulder dull gold, and a small duffle bag in one gloved hand while the other held a briefcase. The strain of the last two days showed on the physician as well, deepening the lines on his long face. Crane knew the doctor hadn't had a solid block of sleep since Chip collapsed. "Don't worry, Lee. Chip's already doing better and once we get him back to the States, he'll make a full recovery. Cholera is rarely fatal nowadays. "

"Any idea how he got it, Doc?" Crane shoved his hands deeper in the heavy jacket and shivered.

"No, but I suspect the drinking bout with the Argentine police. I had Parker inoculate everyone on the ship just in case," Jamieson said briskly.

They were interrupted by Parker, Kowalski, Patterson and a fourth crewman who carried Chip's bundled form strapped to a lifter out of the sail's hatchway and down the gangway to the quay where an ambulance was waiting.

At this point, Crane knew more than he wanted about cholera. He took comfort in Jamieson's relaxed manner. If Chip were really in danger of dying, the doctor would have insisted on being beside the litter.

"So the British had no problem getting you a flight out," Crane asked as he and Jamieson followed the litter. The seamen loaded Chip into the ambulance with the help of two hospital orderlies, then returned to the submarine.

"Well, we can't leave until tomorrow but a Major Reginald Owen has arranged for Chip to spend the night at the hospital. I've been invited to dine with Governor Hunt tonight."

“Ah, so that’s why the full uniform,” Crane said. “I wondered.”

“At least I’ll be warm,” Jamieson commented looking down at his long coat which ended at mid-calf. "I've got an extra sweater on underneath. When do you leave, Captain?”

Crane glanced at him. “Right away. I’ve never felt we should keep Admirals waiting and he expects us to do that preliminary survey of the Sandwich Trench before we pick him up at Palmer Base.”

"Happy April First, Lee. " Jamieson chuckled. "This is one of the most perverse kind of April Fool's jokes I've ever had. "

"At least no one has come up with a new twist,” Crane commented abstractly as he watched the ambulance drive off. "Now you can go to that conference you wanted to. The one on rehabilitation surgery.

Jamieson smiled as he tapped his fingers on the briefcase in his right hand. “The only positive thing to come out of this. I’ve got my final draft manuscript right in here and I’ll do the last touches on the flight.”

"Don't take any job offers. I'm not sure what _Seaview_ would do without you," Crane advised with a quick smile.

"I’m not likely to give up my retirement," Jamieson laughed. "This must be Major Owen, Captain.”

A dark-haired man wearing the insignia of a Royal Marines Major on the shoulder of his heavy greatcoat and wearing a green beret walked towards them, leaving his battered Land Rover parked behind him on the concrete pier. He saluted and the Americans returned it. "Captain Crane? Lieutenant Commander Jamieson? I'm Major Owen."

"Major," Crane acknowledged. "Thank you for all your help."

"No problem," Owen said with a tight smile. "Always happy to help our NATO allies. "

Crane was momentarily taken back by the man's chilly reception. What had they done to annoy the Major? He could feel tension and antagonism radiating from the man. Major Owen looked too young for his rank.

"You seem a little tense, Major," Jamieson commented, picking up the duffle bag that he had carried off the ship. He shot Crane a warning glance.

"There are rumors that there may be a spot of trouble with the Argentines," Owen said reluctantly. "It's made everything a little tense."

"Nothing urgent, I hope," Crane asked sharply.

"Oh, no. They claim the islands are theirs while we know they're British," Owen replied. "The Argentines are posturing again. "

"Then I've got nothing to worry about leaving Doc and Lieutenant Morton here?" Crane inquired with a touch of unease.

"Nothing at all, " Owen assured him with a frigid smile. "We've already made the arrangements for their departure."

"Our plane leaves tomorrow? " Jamieson asked.

"Tomorrow at noon. Shall I take you to the King George Hospital, Doctor, so you can see the facilities?" offered the Marine, making a conscious effort to be courteous.

"Sure," Jamieson said. "I have to see how Mister Morton is anyway."

"I'll say goodbye then?" Crane held out his hand to Jamieson.

The doctor waved him away with a shake of his head. "No direct contact, just in case. I'll see you in Santa Barbara, Captain. " Jamieson snapped him a precise salute which Crane returned.

Crane watched Major Owen and Jamieson get into the Land Rover and drive off. He looked around the crumbling concrete pier lined only with decaying warehouses and several small fishing boats. It was hell of a place to leave his friends, and in the teeth of a hurricane as well. He hoped Jamieson and Chip would make it out the next day.

"April Fool's Day," he muttered between clenched teeth as he shivered. "Let's get out of here."

 

Jamieson left his briefcase and duffle in the front entryway of the hospital as he followed Owen upstairs. The white-painted walls and tiled floors lent a chill that seeped through his heavy wool coat. Heating ducts labored to keep the building warm against the elements.

They climbed to the second floor where Owen led the way into a small ward often beds tended by a nurse -- _no, in the British system, the nurses are called Sisters, aren't they_? Jamieson thought. She stood by Morton's bed checking on the intravenous system that kept him from dehydrating, but turned when she heard footsteps. He appeared to be the only patient in the small ward. The other beds had their white curtains neatly tied back to the walls.

Jamieson put her age as roughly the same as the Admiral and she carried herself with as much dignity. The doctor automatically straightened, seeing Owen doing the same beside him. "Commander Jamieson? "

"Yes, Ma'am," he said in surprise. "Doctor William Jamieson.”

"I'm Sister Patricia Cornell," she said with a smile that took ten years off her age. "That's a sick boy you have there, Doctor. "

"Yes, though he's a bit old to be called a 'boy'. How is Commander Morton?” Jamieson asked, looking over her shoulder.

"He's doing quite well," she replied politely. "Should be well in a couple of days."

"Then we'll have to strap him down," the doctor said dryly, eyeing the prone man, who was shifting restlessly in his sleep. "He'll start to think he can just walk out and go back to work.

The sister laughed. "He'll collapse and go right back into hospital. I take it that he doesn't listen to good advice?"

Jamieson shook his head. "Rarely.”

"Shall I escort the doctor to where he's staying, Sister Cornell? " Major Owen interrupted. "We've got a room for him in Government House. "

"I'd rather be closer to my patient," Jamieson protested.

Owen smiled patronizingly. "It's not very far. Nothing is very far on this island. "

"Yes, go ahead," Sister Cornell said briskly. "We'll be seeing you later tonight, Doctor Jamieson."

Jamieson realized he'd been dismissed. He opened his mouth to argue but caught a look in Sister Cornell's eyes that warned him to go along with Major Owen. The nurse wasn't going to permit an argument in her ward. "Certainly, Major. I will be back, Sister. "

"Visiting hours are between eight and ten," she replied sweetly.

"Come along, Commander," the Major ordered.

Jamieson so seldom used his rank that he automatically looked at Chip when Major Owen called him ‘Commander.” As he turned and followed Owen, he thought that the formality here was going to take some getting used to.

 

 

Nelson sipped his hot tea as he sat at the long table in the main laboratory of Faraday station. Across from him, Dr. Charles Temple, British marine biologist and medical physician,gestured emphatically as he pounded on the table. The iron tea kettle rocked with every slam, spilling hot liquid on the stained table.” “Admiral, the United Nations Convention would ban mining from this entire area! That's terrific! "

"But that's why my country and yours aren't planning to sign it," the Admiral retorted.

"Many of the provisions are good," Temple said as if he hadn't heard the other man, "The parts on ocean dumping and protection of the marine environment are super, but the language on mining rights is absolutely outrageous!”

“I’m not sure our demands to the United Nations aren't outrageous as well," Nelson said dryly, eyeing the huge burly man whose long dark hair was tied back in a pony tail, and whose beard was speckled with black and grey hairs. Temple had little of the English reticence that Nelson was accustomed to. It was a disconcerting change. "It's a loaded amendment which would let five companies, mostly American, exploit sixty thousand square miles. "

"Yes, but even if they win the amendment, the companies won't hit their estimated limits for twenty years even if they produced at full capacity! " Temple protested.

"That's millions of tons of minerals a year and unless the US government changes its mind, we aren't going to be signing the treaty," the Admiral stated flatly. "Frankly, I feel that we should sign it for the advancement of science but Washington is riddled with businessmen and politicians who need a monetary reason."

"That's what _Seaview_ 's coming south for, correct? To explore the Sandwich Trench and see what minerals lie down there," Temple asked shrewdly. His huge hands picked up the iron kettle and delicately poured the tea into his heavy white coffee cup. The saucer below was swimming with spilt liquid.

The Admiral took another sip of his tea, wishing it wasn't so strong. He'd have preferred coffee. His brow slightly wrinkling at Temple's tone, he replied, "That and to find out what the Russians are doing down here."

"Then you'll be visiting them? I know the chief scientist over there, Darbynzen. He'll be happy to show you what they've discovered in the ice cores,” he said with a grin. "It's rather interesting. "

"What have they found?"

"Spores and pollen that are a million years old! Apparently there was a thaw about fifteen thousand years ago and Mother Nature got trapped in deep freeze, " the scientist said enthusiastically his mood changing. "I go over there to compare notes with Darbynzen."

The Admiral raised an eyebrow. "And how does he feel about the UN's Law of the Sea convention!"

"He cares about ice and pollen and microorganisms, Admiral! Politicians are too recently developed life forms for him to bother with," Temple guffawed. "He'll do whatever his country tells him to do. Frankly I think they shipped him out here because he was too brilliant to keep in Russia and letting him get bored would increase the risk of him defecting!"

"What's the base like!" Nelson inquired.

"Like here. Like Palmer. Of course they share their island with some other stations -- Chile has a couple, Argentina has one, but they're good neighbors. "

"And nothing suspicious happens!" the Admiral probed.

Temple smiled, his teeth gleaming through his heavy beard. "You mean like nuclear submarines or spying trawlers tying up for a visit? Why, Admiral Nelson, the place is riddled with them. We watch the Russians, who are fond of watching icebergs within surveillance range of this base; the Argies have this freighter decked out with enough radio gear to sink a carrier, keeping track of people, and everyone eyes Palmer station to see when the next supply shipment comes in. Your submarine will be lucky if it can find open water to surface, Admiral Nelson!.

Nelson reflected that Grant was right about Temple being more than he seemed. Not many scientists would recognize an intelligence spy-trawler. The burly man across the table probably knew about _Seaview_ as well. Of course, few retired four-star Admirals had their own submarines and were known as marine specialists, and the popular press had written extensively about _Seaview_ 's research capabilities, its creator, and crew. Temple was probably a British Intelligence agent keeping an eye on all the bases as well as a scientist. Nelson had run too many intelligence missions himself to know that both jobs were mutually exclusive.

"And do you think I'd be welcomed by the Russians?" Nelson inquired smoothly.

"As a scientist, surely. As a snoop... as welcome as you would be at an Argentine establishment," Temple replied callously. "But the Russians' food will be better. "

Nelson picked up the disdain in Temple's tone. "You don't like the Argentines!" he questioned eyeing the man, askance.

"Not much. I've been listening to their broadcasts for almost three years now, and that country's running down fast. The Junta has the world's worst inflation and unrest, and the human rights blokes in your country are hammering on the disappearance of thousands of citizens by the secret police. And along with all that, the Junta want the Falklands back from Britain. " The doctor snorted disgustedly. "The Falklands are fairly worthless though rhere are some islands in the archipelago which should be international bird sanctuaries. Talk with Alex Foster, he's a refugee from them, down here to help out with my krill studies. You can't even get a decent cup of tea in Port Stanley. Have you visited there yet, Admiral?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure I will after we explore that trench," Nelson said smiling. "The islands are famous in naval history. "

"Ah, yes, the battle of the Falklands between Sturdee and von Spee," Temple said unexpectedly. "1915 or so, correct?"

"You're very well informed, Doctor?" the Admiral replied in surprise. "I didn't think most scientists knew naval history."

"I used to dream of being in the Royal Navy, but I get terribly seasick," the burly man said sheepishly. "About the Trench. Admiral Nelson, I have a favor to ask of you on that. "

Nelson raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"As you must know, my research is on the krill swarms off the Antarctic Peninsula. Those little shrimp like to swim in depths between two thousand and three thousand feet and that Trench reaches down farther than anyone's gone before. Could you test and see where the krill thin out as you go down!" Temple looked hopefully at the stocky man.

“That should be no problem. " Nelson smiled relaxing slightly. He hadn't been sure what the scientist was going to ask for. "I'll make some modifications on our tests so that we can look for the krill along with the nodules."

Dr. Temple clapped his hands. "Excellent! Any information I can provide for you, I will. "

“I’ll return to Palmer tomorrow and go up to the Russian base the next day. _Seaview_ should be arriving in a couple of days for the tests, " Nelson said holding his cup out for more tea. "Grant tells me you have done some excellent research, doctor. "

“I’d like you to look it over," Temple replied enthusiastically. "I'm sure you can give me some new insights. Besides, we'll be eating some of the results tonight. "

"What?"

“We're having krill burgers. Alex has come up with a way to make it into a patty. "

Nelson looked doubtful.

“One of the best proteins ever found, Admiral. Better than beef, if you don't mind the taste of sea food. You'll like it. "

 

 

It was half-past eight when Jamieson stepped out of Government House. The storm which had threatened to arrive earlier now pelted the frozen turf with sleet and he momentarily thought of going back inside and asking for the loan of a Land Rover. Still it was less than a quarter mile, so Jamieson simply settled his hat more firmly on his head and walked down the muddy, potholed road, noting with interest that the rain was driven horizontally by the high wind.

Every few feet, he stumbled into potholes filled with freezing water.

His dinner with the Governor had opened his eyes to the conditions on the small islands. Having only twelve hundred inhabitants, the natives were a tough, resilient breed whose numbers were falling each generation. The colony had been established in eighteen thirty-two, and the port had thrived in the days of whaling but now it only raised and exported sheep. The whole city of Port Stanley was only a quarter of a mile wide, stretching for a mile down the edge of the bay with the Murray Heights rising in long dark waves behind the city's lights. The bulk of the visitors were naturalists studying the varied species of penguin, shags -- which the doctor discovered was another name for cormorants, sea lions and fur seals, among other animals.

Jamieson had been struck with the strictly local nature of the news discussed at the dinner table between Major Owen, Governor Hunt and his wife. The vegetable show had been a success despite the weather and Mrs. Hunt teased the dour Major about his men losing to the Stanley soccer team. Owen had lightened up enough to reply politely, promising that the incoming troops would certainly beat the native Islanders. There were currently twice as many Marines on the islands than normal since the garrison was being exchanged with a new set of soldiers. There was an animated discussion of a car accident a week before, the Governor explaining to the puzzled doctor that with only twelve miles of road connected the small towns on East Falkland, finding another car to hit was a major accomplishment.

It was a whole different world to Jamieson, who privately rejoiced that he would be leaving the next day. He shivered as he felt ice forming on his wet collar. Reaching Reservoir Road, he turned right and headed for the small hospital not faraway.

After entering through the glass doors, he doffed the soaked navy wool coat and ran his hand over his thinning hair as he climbed upstairs to Chip's room.

The ward was dark except for the small lamp on the Sister's desk and another small glowing lamp down beside Chip's bed.

The white-clad nurse beside Morton turned her head as Jamieson entered and lifted her hand to her lips, warning him to be quiet.

"How is he?” the doctor whispered, hanging the coat on the end rail of one of the empty beds.

"Restless," she said softly. "Wakes up every now and then and looks around, then goes back to sleep."

"I thought as much," Jamieson said going to the other side. "Lucky that he's a healthy young man or the cholera would have hit him a lot harder."

"Been his doctor long?" she inquired surveying him.

"About ten years." Jamieson reflected in wonderment for a second struck by the amount of time. "I always seem to rotate back onto _Seaview_. "

"That's your submarine? Must be a lovely boat to keep the same officers for ten years! " Cornell commented.

Jamieson grinned for a second. "You'd catch the Admiral's heart with that comment. He dearly loves his submarine. "

"An Admiral! I didn't know they still sailed about. Most of the Admirals I knew had offices in Whitehall and only sailed boats in their bathtubs," she said with an amused smile.

"Were you in the Royal Navy?" Jamieson asked, putting a chair next to Chip's bed.

"No, but my youngest boy is now. I've been a nurse nearly thirty years," the woman said proudly, lifting her head.

Jamieson smiled at her, a rare bright smile that lit up his long face. "A career woman to the core."

"Oh, I had a husband and children but after they were raised, and he passed away, I went back to nursing full time," she said returning his smile. "Your boy reminds me of my oldest. He was always coming down with some disease and bringing it home. "

The doctor laughed, cutting it off when the sound echoed off the whitewashed walls. "On the submarine, they all bring it home, and then I get to handle it. "

"Boys will be boys," Sister said briskly. "He was awake a few minutes ago, so you can have a talk. I'll get a cup of tea for both of us. " She walked out of the ward before Jamieson could protest.

Looking over Morton's prostrate form, Jamieson suddenly saw a gleam from under one eyelid. "So you're finally awake, Commander Morton?"

Chip smiled weakly. "I've been awake...for a while... Where are we?"

Jamieson came to stand by the head of the bed checking the tubing that ran down to Chip's arm. "King George Hospital in Port Stanley, Falklands. We're going out on tomorrow's transport. "

"What...was it, Doc! I've never...felt like this," Chip whispered

"Cholera, " Jamieson said bluntly. "A very bad case of it."

Chip turned his head feebly, assessing the doctor's words. " Chol...era! What'd... I eat?"

"Doesn't matter. You should be over the worst in a couple more days but I'm still taking you home," the doctor said reassuringly

" _Seaview_? "

" _Seaview_ 's on her way to the Trench, then to pick up the Admiral. They've left you with me," Jamieson said with a grin.

Chip smiled weakly. "Fun. So much fun… Who’s the lady?”

"Sister Cornell," Jamieson replied. “She maybe the only nurse behave yourself. No trying to pick her up."

The sick man chuckled at the thought. "I don't...I've been a pain, haven't...I, Doc?" He had the grace to look a little ashamed, though it only lasted a fraction of a second.

“Go to sleep, Mister Morton, before I have to give you a sedative,” Jamieson retorted, shaking his head in amusement. “It’s a long trip back to the States.”

Chip's lashes fluttered as he closed rhythmic.

Jamieson looked up to see Sister Cornell holding two cups of tea. Her smile told him that she'd overheard most of the conversation.

"He's worried that he's been a bother to you?"

The doctor stood and took one of the cups from her. "They're only repentant when they're ill. Chip's one of the worst offenders. H[e refuses to come down to Sick Bay and spreads his colds all over the ship."

"Chip!" she inquired.

He waved to the prone man. "Lieutenant Commander Charles 'Chip' Morton. I'm not sure that anyone uses Charles anymore.

"We use the word 'chips' for fried potatoes," she said with a slight snicker. "He doesn't look like a fried potato."

Jamieson grinned. "No, but he's a rare handful when he's fried."

"Fried?"

"Tired beyond his physical limits," he translated "Or drunk."

She sat down in her chair and took a sip of tea. "Tell me about him, Doctor, and the other boys on your ship. "

"I don't want to bore you, Sister," Jamieson demurred.

"Nonsense. We don't get many visitors down here and 'm always curious. Most of the people on this island are retirees and the young people leave when they can.

"Major Owen --

"Reggie is part of the Royal Marines garrison and absolutely hates it here but his transfer out is in this change-over. He's a dear despite his glower. "

"I'm sure he has his worries," Jamieson said, defending the absent man for some reason he didn't understand.

"Yes, but he's reached the point where he really wants to go home," she observed. "Most of the soldiers here feel that way after their tour, and he's been here longer than most, because he's so good at what he does. Commander, please take off your cap and tell me about your boat."

Jamieson smiled at her. "Then you'll let me stay here beyond ten?"

She blushed as she returned his smile, her words coming back at her. "For as long as you like, Doctor. "


	3. April 2, 1982  April 2, 1982

Nelson took the microphone from Grant's hand. "Lee? "

"Admiral! " Crane's voice reverberated from the cold plastic.

"How far away from Palmer are you, Lee?"

"Several days. We're battling the current all the way. When would you like us to pick you up, Admiral?"

Nelson smiled. "I've been invited up to the Russian base for a day or two, Lee. I'll be back here on the sixth. Why don't we plan on the seventh at the latest? "

"The Russians! " Crane inquired curiously.

"Their research crosses with ours, " Nelson said. "How is everything? "

"Fine, now. We had a problem...Admiral."

The sound crackled out of the microphone. "What's happening?" Nelson asked Grant.

"There's quite a wind out there. Snow's piling on the antenna, probably ruining the transmission, " the scientist replied, looking out the tiny window.

The Admiral could see snow being blown against the glass. " _Seaview_? "

"Admiral? We're losing your signal?"

"It's the weather, Lee. I'll call you when I get back from the Russian base," Nelson said.

"Roger, Admiral. Have a good...ip. " The microphone crackled for a last second then went dead.

"So, you're going to see Darbynzen?" Grant commented as Nelson walked over to the table. "He's a good scientist."

"That's what Temple said. And a bad politician," the Admiral replied.

"Very true. Would you like to take over his coffee!" Grant asked. "We trade a bit down here; coffee for caviar."

"Caviar," Nelson chuckled. "That's expensive coffee. "

Grant smiled. "Around here everything's expensive. But it might make him more informative about what Russia plans to do about the mineral rights, Admiral. "

Nelson met Grant's gaze and smiled slightly. "l'll be happy to take over the coffee cans. "

 

  
Jamieson’s first thought was that it was cold as a tomb in the small room. Shivering, he unwrapped his arm from the thin blankets and checked his watch. Slightly after six a.m. _What the hell is all that noise_?

He pushed off the blankets and pulled on the shirt, pants, and pullover sweater he had laid out the night before. He had kept on his thick socks over which he laid his shoes. Jamieson picked up the still-damp coat as he walked toward the door.

The hallway was empty except for the sound of confused shouting on the first floor.

He descended the staircase, coming face to face with Major Owen who exploded out a door underneath the steps.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the Major thundered.

“What’s happened?” Jamieson replied, seeing the man was now wearing combat gear. In one hand was a semi-machine gun with the safety off.

"Get in there," the soldier ordered, pointing to the room where he had just emerged. “For your information, Doctor, we’ve been invaded.”

“You’re kidding!” the doctor said in a startled tone as he catapulted into the room helped by Major Owen's shove. It was mostly dark except for light which came in through two small windows set in a wall.

“Stay here,” Owen barked. “I’ll be back.”

Jamieson realized the popping he heard was something he had heard in the past, the sound of machine guns and rifles firing. It had been thirty years since Korea but he still knew the sound intimately.

Looking around the room he saw a tall young man standing by a radio. "Who are you?"

"I'm Antony Brown," the man replied wryly. "One of the foreign officers. Who are you?"

"Doctor Jamieson, US Navy. What's going on?"

"The Argentines invaded about six hours ago," Brown said tiredly. "They came in off Cape Pembroke and have been moving towards Stanley ever since. l've been up all night."

"What about the hospital? " Jamieson said sharply.

"Don't know. Why!"

"I’ve got a patient -- " the doctor's voice was cut off as a bullet came through and embedded itself in the wood of the wall opposite him. Jamieson crouched alongside Brown,who had gone under his desk with one fluid movement.

From outside he heard a Spanish-accented voice call, "Mister Hunt, Mister Hunt, the island has been taken over by Argentine marines."

"Cripes," Jamieson muttered.

"We want you to come out alone, Mister Hunt. You are surrounded. Do you surrender?" the voice persisted.

Heavy firing greeted this, then someone, Jamieson thought it sounded like Owen, shouted, "No, the Governor will not surrender!"

A grenade went off accompanied by heavy machine gun fire. Looking out the windows Jamieson could see the light of tracer bullets against the dark sky. The ground shook and Brown whimpered.

"I wonder if anyone's been hurt?" the doctor murmured, getting up on one knee.

Brown caught at his arm. "You aren't going to leave, are you?"

Jamieson hesitated, then looked at the radio. "Is that thing still working, Brown?"

The radio crackled at that instant, the refined tones of the British Broadcasting Company World Service blaring out of a hiss of static. "We have information that an invasion in the Falklands is imminent," the broadcaster informed the trapped men. "Please stand by for further information. In the meantime we will play a selection of modern pop. "

The music that followed Jamieson didn't recognize. The doctor grinned, feeling a surge of adrenalin going through his veins. "Well, the BBC's not up-to-date, at least. " He turned for the door.

The walls shook around them as a grenade went off just outside the building. The glass splintered, sending fragments over both men.

Jamieson landed flatly, his hands raked by glass shards and his ears ringing from the noise.

"Doctor! " Brown called grabbing him by the coat and pulling him into the shelter of the desk.

Jamieson pulled himself into the small alcove, feeling dizzy. He could feel a trickle of blood going down his back. Some of the window glass must have cut open the jacket and reached his skin. Looking at his hands he could see blood seeping from numerous scratches.

The American shook his head to try to clear it. "I'll stay here for a second," he said shakily.

"Good idea," Brown encouraged, sitting cross-legged and peering out at the wreckage of the room. "Don't mind the company."

Through the small window they saw a big white cargo plane fly by, towards the small airfield at one end of the city and heard the roar of its engine.

Bending his legs to make a smaller target for the bullets which occasionally came through the windows, the doctor gave a gasp of pure agony as his right knee gave out. His sight blurred with sudden tears as he went pale with shock.

"Doctor! " Brown asked, hearing the sound.

As the pain ebbed Jamieson swallowed, then licked his dry lips. "I'm all right." He carefully moved his right leg, expecting more pain when he bent it but this time it didn't come.

Torn cartilage, he decided after a careful flex. Nothing to worry about with bullets flying around them, but he'd have to be careful.

"This should be over soon," Brown commented hearing the machine guns picking up. "There are only eighty-four Marines on the island. We can't fight against thousands of Argentines! "

"I wouldn't bet on Major Owen giving up that easily," Jamieson muttered.

"No, but he'll have to if Governor Hunt orders him," Brown said confidently.

Over their heads, the radio crackled as Governor Hunt's voice came out. "Government House is virtually surrounded. There are five armored personnel carriers with thirty millimeter cannons on their way to us. We are trying to immobilize the vehicles -- "

"Lots of luck, Gov," Brown commented dropping his head to his chest. The young man's face was pale in the faint tracer light that came through the shattered windows.

"They want us alive," Jamieson comforted him. "Or they would have bombed us to smithereens. Stop worrying about it, Brown. "

"Have you ever been in this situation?" Brown asked sharply, fear making his accent more brittle.

"Yes," Jamieson said simply. "Thirty years ago in Korea. It was just about as cold and miserable as this place is, and I ended up a prisoner-of-war. I hope it'll be different here. "

"They should ship you out on the first plane. This isn't your war, " Brown replied. "lt's between us and Argentina."

 

In the hospital, Sister Cornell moved Chip's bed away from the windows. The sound of the bombs and guns had awakened him and he looked around semi-alertly as a mud-splattered soldier, followed by two others burst into the ward, machine guns held ready.

Sister Cornell's face went as pale as the ceramic tiling, and she lifted her hand to her mouth, but held her ground by Chip's bed as the soldier approached.

Morton's fist clenched, but he didn't move.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

The man looked around the room, seeing only the one patient. The rest of the beds were empty, ready for casualties.

"I am Major Roca," he said harshly in heavily accented English. "You will have to prepare for casualties, Nurse... "

"Sister Cornell," she replied. "Why are you here?"

Morton turned his head slightly to look at the soldier. His blue eyes were slitted as if he was asleep.

"Who is this?" Roca asked.

"Lieutenant Commander Morton," she replied. "He's an American."

"An American?" Roca repeated inquisitively.

Cornell's hand moved protectively to Morton's shoulder. "He's very ill . Too ill to move.”

"What about Jamieson... “ Chip murmured. His voice was so faint that Cornell almost missed it.

"There's another American on the island," she said. "An American doctor. "

"Really! I will take him into my personal custody," Roca replied. "I have met so few Americans. I will be back to see you later, Nurse. "

After he left, Chip began struggling, the lines of intravenous tubing tangling his arm.

Cornell put her hand down on his left shoulder holding him down. "What do you think you're doing, Commander?" she asked sternly.

"I have to get up," Chip fumed, his pallor growing with every movement. "Doc--

"And end up back in a bed, or in an internment camp without any chance of recovery?" she inquired waspishly, her accent making it even more cutting. "I don't think Doctor Jamieson would approve of that and you can't help him if you collapse. "

Chip sent her a frustrated glare which she ignored, staring at him firmly. "Jamieson's not a fighter --

"Right now, we're being invaded and he's probably a prisoner. You can't help anyone with your weakness, and if you even if you could, you can't do anything that the Royal Marines haven't tried! " Cornell said reasonably. "And if you don't lie down, I'll strap you down, Commander!"

Morton stared at her coldly, anger set in every line of his face, but finally settled back on the harsh white sheets.

"That's better. The sooner you recover, the sooner you can help your friend," the nurse said briskly. "And I think it's safe to move you back where you were now that they've stopped shooting outside. "

 

Jamieson and Brown listened to the radio as the broadcaster began putting on the air live calls from all over the island. One woman said that lots of armored cars were going past her while another commented that he had sent a bewildered elderly gentleman home when the man had wanted to go to work despite the attack. Port Stanley's Chief Police officer ordered everyone to stay home.

A little later one of the British doctors Jamieson had met briefly the day before came on the air to say that all the hospital staff and patients were well and eating breakfast. Jamieson relaxed slightly knowing that Chip, at least, was out of danger.

The firing outside started up, making Jamieson and Brown jump. The sounds came from behind Government House, from what Jamieson could judge.

Then a bullet came through the wall.

"What the -- " Brown cried, bending over to make as small a target as possible.

Jamieson followed suit, hearing a gun battle erupting from the rooms behind them. A man screamed in pain, then there were sounds of scuffling feet and yelling both in British and Spanish.

A quarter-hour later the noise stopped, leaving the doctor and Brown to wonder what had happened. Finally Jamieson crawled to the door and pulled it slightly more open. The hall was empty.

The next half-hour brought increasingly belligerent comments from Governor Hunt and Spanish replies as well as increased shooting. Then the firing stopped and the radio ordered, "Don't fire on the man with the white flag. "

Jamieson heard voices outside the room and craned his head to see out the half opened door. A man carrying a white flag came in the battered wooden front door to meet Governor Hunt, who came out of a room on the other side of the hallway.

“Good lord, that’s Gilobert,” Brown breathed beside Jamieson. “Our Vice-Commodore. Looks like he's eaten a prune."

Gilobert's face was screwed up in distaste but he was talking emphatically, waving the flag to emphasis his point.

An hour later a cease-fire was called. Overhead came the roar of aircraft as Jamieson and Brown stood, gingerly brushing glass from their clothes. The doctor concealed his injury as he followed the young man into the hallway where Governor Hunt was standing, his arm around his wife. Her hands were tightly clenched, her knuckles white.

"Sorry about this inconvenience," the Governor said to Jamieson apologetically. "You should have taken off by now."

The doctor smiled thinly, his gaze darting outside. "I'd just like to get down to the hospital to see my patient."

"Look! " Brown called pointing. Through the shattered glass in the hallway windows they saw three Argentine half-track personnel carriers pass the building. The soldiers crowding the carriers waved.

Jamieson didn't hear what Hunt muttered, but he saw the man's hand on his wife's arm tighten.

An Argentine officer came in the door, a machine gun in his hand. He was short and burly, with a thick black mustache.

"Governor? " he inquired politely, indicating that the soldiers following him should search the building.

" Yes," Hunt disdainfully ignoring the machine guns.

"I am Major Roca. Please, sir, go into your office until we have further orders " A burst of firing behind the building emphasized his words.

The Governor and his wife reluctantly led the way, Brown on their heels.

Jamieson’s gaze meet the Argentine’s, whose eyes narrowed with suspicion at the non-British uniform. “I am Lieutenant Commander William Jamieson of the American submarine _Seaview._ ”

The Major stared at him implacably, his hands on the trigger of the machine gun. "You are the American?" he said in heavily accented English.

"Yes. I'm a doctor. I have a patient, one of _Seaview_ 's officers, in King George Hospital," Jamieson explained. He didn't like the way the Argentine was staring at him. "I'd like to go see him as soon as possible. "

“Medico. Come with me," Roca ordered waving the muzzle towards the back of Government house.

Jameson looked around helplessly but the only people nearby were Argentine. He led the way, Roca right behind him, through the servants quarters and out the back of the building where the kitchen garden was.

On the frozen ground were two prone men, their clothing saturated in blood. Jameson guessed the Argentine had tried some kind of secret attack on Government House and it failed. It was probably what had caused all the noise earlier.

One of the men groaned and moved his hand slightly jolting the doctor out of his surprise. From behind, he felt a gun muzzle shove him forward.

“You will help then?” Rica asked.

“I’ll try,” Jamieson replied neutrally. He stepped forward to the first body, then checked himself. The man was obviously dead from his pallor and the amount of blood soaking the parka. Jamieson knelt carefully by the next man who was twitching as he muttered in Spanish. A bullet had gone through his upper arm. Inside the pouch hanging off the man's belt, Jamieson found a wrapped package with red crosses. Even if the writing was in Spanish, he recognized a field dressing.

Quickly and efficiently he dressed the wound, giving the man an antibiotic shot. Finally he turned to find several soldiers had come up behind him and were watching suspiciously. Jamieson looked at the Major. "He needs to be in a hospital, either George or one of yours. You can move him safely now. "

One of the soldiers said something in Spanish, waving towards the doctor and the wounded man, and the Major replied. Jamieson heard, "medico" several times as he climbed painfully to his feet, feeling a twinge from his leg. Mud daubed his long coat and he brushed at it with bloody hands.

The soldiers stepped forward and Jamieson retreated towards the back of the garden to come up against another soldier who barred his way.

"We go to the hospital now," Roca ordered. "All of us. "

Jamieson followed the soldiers carrying the wounded man, with Roca righr behind him, the rifle's muzzle against his back.

Looking down the muddy road, he saw a row of captured Royal Marines, hands behind their heads. An officer came out of the crowd of muddy parka-clad Argentines and ordered the prisoners to put down their guns and lie face-down in the muddy road. The British complied slowly, their movements angry. The soldiers began searching the captured men as Jamieson and his troop went by.

Jamieson looked for Major Owen, but the rangy officer didn't appear to be one of the prisoners. He must have escaped.

The doctor hoped so. It would be nice to have someone out there who knew he and Chip still existed.


	4. April 7, 1982

"Admiral! " Grant's voice boomed over the ice as Nelson climbed out off the small boat moored to the uncompleted pier at Palmer. He swayed, expecting the ice under his feet to buck like the deck had for most of the trip.

"Paul?" The Admiral heard a note of urgency in the other man's voice. He walked as quickly as he could over the frozen earth, seeing mountains of wind-blown snow piled against the metal buildings, and feeling the promise of more precipitation in the air. The storm that had kept him trapped at the Russian base had blown itself out overnight.

"Come inside quickly, " the scientist called, leading the way.

Out of the howling wind, Nelson found the building suspiciously quiet except for voices in the communications room where Paul was leading him. The Admiral shucked his parka in the warmth, seeing Grant doing the same.

"What's happened?" Nelson snapped, unnerved by Grant's grim expression.

"I know that the Russians' communication dish went down a couple of days ago so you probably haven't heard," Grant replied, "In here. "

A huge parka-clad man leaning over the top of the radio looked up. Another slender man with blond hair concentrated on listening to his headset, his slender fingers turning the dials imperceptibly.

"Dr. Temple! " The Admiral wondered what the British scientist was doing here.

Grant checked outside the door, then shut it firmly, closing the venetian blinds so no one could see in.

"Admiral, the Falkland Islands were invaded five days ago," Temple said bluntly.

"What! By whom? "

"Argentina," Grant said from behind Nelson. He walked over and leaned on the radio console. "They've also taken over South Georgia. The British base there was full of scientists but the Argentines say they're fine."

Nelson rubbed his bristly chin. "So what is happening now? "

"Basically we've all but declared war on Argentina," Temple said bluntly. "A task force is being sent from Britain. "

"A task force! "

Temple shrugged. "The Royal Navy to the rescue of a couple of sheep-ridden islands. "

“What about us, the United States?" Nelson asked turning to Grant.

"That's what we have to discuss," the scientist replied in a restrained tone. "The Pentagon wants to talk to you, Harriman. Privately."

"Admiral, let me introduce you to Alex Foster," Temple said unexpectedly, clapping his hand on the shoulder of the radio man. Foster smiled uncertainly.

"Dr. Foster? " Nelson questioned. The man was probably in his late twenties, tall and slender with a wheaten cap of hair that dropped from a cowlick on his right temple.

"Not yet, sir, " Foster said, his tenor voice respectful as his dark blue eyes scanned the Admiral. "I'm working on my doctorate with Dr. Temple, on krill studies. "

"He's the man who made those burgers I fed you. He's also the radio man at Faraday," Temple boomed with a slight edge of warning in his tone. "Keeps track of things going in and out in this area.

"You were the one who first heard about the invasion, Foster?" the Admiral asked, noting Foster move slightly away from Temple’s hand on his shoulder. “On the BBC?”

"We need to stay in touch with the situation and Alex's the best we have down here right now," Grant said seriously.

Temple shook his head. "Didn't think the Argies had it in them. Usually they’re only interested in money propositions. Taking over colonies is a bit out of their depths.”

"We’ve been in touch with the Ministry in London," Foster said in a low tone, "We’re passing along any information from the ham radios on the islands.”

“Anything you need, call us, Admiral. We can transmit and receive from the Falklands,” Temple added. "Let's leave him to call Washington. We'll be in the kitchen—“

"I'll be with them?" Grant added. "We'll make some coffee and wait. You know how to use the equipment, I'm sure."

Nelson smiled grimly. The radio was primitive compared with the one on _Seaview_ and he was sure Temple knew that, even if Grant didn't. "I know how to use it. "

The three scientists left, and Nelson began flicking switches. Contacting the American base on Ascension Island, he was routed through the satellite and within five minutes had a line into the Navy Department in Washington.

"Admiral Nelson? " came a cold tone.

Nelson recognized the demanding tone of Admiral Pauley's voice. He had had to deal with Pauley over the years and never looked forward to it.

"This is Nelson," he said tersely.

"You're at Palmer?" Pauley asked.

"Yes, sir. "

"Have you got scrambler capacity, Admiral?"

"No, sir, this is the main radio for the entire station," Nelson replied. "But _Seaview_ will be here shortly –“

"When she arrives, call us, Admiral. Until then don't make any moves pro or con in the South Atlantic that would commit the United States to any action," Pauley said imperiously. "Out. "

Nelson wondered what Washington had in mind and what the devil they were talking about. "Palmer, out."

He flicked off the radio and joined the scientists who were gathered in the kitchen.

Besides Foster, Temple and Grant, four other men were seated at the table arguing over something that lay in a box.

"I'm telling you it's a rat! " one protested.

"I think you're going crazy," a bearded man said. "It's not a rat, it's over twenty-live or thirty million years old and that predates the modern rat! "

"Not the kind on two legs, " Temple said dryly. "Come and join us, Admiral. They're arguing over this fossil."

Nelson realized the Briton didn't want to discuss the radio message in public. Temple had probably read the fruitlessness of his discussion in Nelson's face. "When does _Seaview_ arrive, Paul? "

"Your captain called several hours ago and said they'd be here in four hours," Grant said. "It was a lousy connection, Harriman. Apparently your radio's been up and down for the last several days and Captain Crane sounded very frustrated. I didn't even get to tell him what happened in the Falklands"

Nelson took a cup from the drainer and filled it with coffee. "Then I've got a little time before _Seaview_ arrives, if she's on time. l'll try and reach Washington at that point if the radio's working."

"Admiral, you know fossils, don't you!" the bearded man interrupted, turning to the officer lounging against the table. "What do you think it is?"

Nelson pulled the box towards him, scanning the bone carefully. "How about the jawbone of an ox?"

"It's too big," the scientist said missing the humor. "Seriously, it's got to be a mammal."

"No, it isn't," snapped his opponent across the table.

Nelson left them to squabble as he got a cup of coffee and mused over the implications of a war in the South Atlantic.

 

Crane stretched and yawned as he looked out the windows of the observation nose.

He would be glad when they finally picked up the Admiral. He privately agreed with Kowalski's assessment that this was one of the most mundane voyages _Seaview_ had ever sailed, as well as being one of the most difficult to navigate with the strong ocean currents pushing them off course. The preliminary scan of the Trench hadn't turned up any elements of note.

He, Sharkey and Sparks spent most of their off time working on the new radio equipment which was stubbornly refusing to receive most of the time. The radio in the Flying Sub was also of the new design, and had all the same problems. The communications officer and Sharkey explored the backup equipment, finding it was old-fashioned to the extent that they would had to surface and trail the antenna to receive anything. The captain was privately very glad that the world was basically at peace; a sure sign of a submarine was a trailing antenna and he wouldn't want to be a target. The backup radio had let them finally contact Palmer before the radio sputtered out with a short. Sparks suggested in exasperation that two cans and a string might work better. Crane had told him to get some rest and planned on getting new equipment at Palmer to fix Seaview's.

Nature was swift and brutal in the Antarctic waters, the freezing temperature making it survival of the well-adapted for the wildlife. That morning, as Crane ate breakfast in the observation nose, a leopard seal appeared out of nowhere, attacked a fat penguin, and, seizing it by the neck, shook it out of its skin, leaving nothing behind but flippers and feathers. The Captain had watched in awe as the seal came around a second time, seizing another penguin. For a fraction of a second he had looked straight into the seal's brown eyes, then the animal was swept away by the water displaced by the submarine, the penguin still clutched in its whiskered jaws. Crane gave up on his breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon.

"Captain!" O'Brien called from the chart table.

Crane turned. "Yes, Mister O'Brien. "

"We’re coming up on Palmer Base, Sir. "

"Good! " Crane knew _Seaview_ could safely dock in the berth which was being built for a much larger research vessel, the _Polar Duke_ , the American replacement for _Hero_.

"Surface the boat, Mister O'Brien."

"Yes, sir. " The young man picked up the microphone and clicked it. "Surface! Blow all ballast."

Lee felt the tilt as _Seaview_ headed upwards and the slight jolt as she broke the surface. Instantly the heavy waves made the submarine rock heavily.

"Let's go above, Chief," he called to Sharkey, seeing the stocky man come forward with two parkas.

"Yes, sir," Sharkey replied obediently.

Above, the air was cold and crisp, as the sky deepened into sunset colors. The _Seaview_ majesticalIy sailed up the Gerlache Strait with massive glaciers on the left side and the low snow-topped mountains of Anvers Island where Palmer was on small uninhabited islands dotted the Straight, unvisited except by the birds that wheeled above the submarine, crying as her passage churned up fresh food.

Looking up, Crane saw black-browed albatrosses wheel their dark twelve-foot wingspans in the updrafts as storm petrels and shags filled the air below them. Cormorants, gulls and sheathbills dived at the water picking out fish.

Crane lifted his binoculars and scanned the icy mountains to either side. Despite their majesty and beauty, icebergs were a constant problem in the Antarctic area.

Crashing free from the ice shelves, the massive chunks of frozen water sailed majestically towards the open ocean. The fading sunlight sparkled off the shattered edges, tinting them with aquamarine and pink. Crane never lost his sense of wonder at seeing icebergs, no matter how dangerous he knew they were.

"Quite something," Sharkey muttered, slamming his hands together in an attempt to warm them up. "What're we up here for, Captain?"

"Just a visual observation," Crane said reluctantly, tearing himself free of nature's grip. "It's a unique part of the world, Chief. "

"Um, yes, sir," Sharkey acknowledged in a tone that said he didn't understand Crane's fascination.

"Why don't you go below? I'll be down in a minute. "

"Yes, sir," the Chief replied reluctantly.

Crane turned back to scanning the surroundings. They were passing Humble Island, one of the small atolls off the edge of Anvers. Through the glasses, he could see the abandoned wind-beaten wooden buildings of an abandoned ice station, and a quarter mile away, another wrecked building. The early explorers had left their remains all over the Antarctic. It would take several hours to cross Arthur Harbor and reach Hero Inlet where Palmer was located.

The microphone went off with a harsh buzz. Crane raised an eyebrow and clicked it twice "Crane. "

"Captain! " Sparks said from the radio shack.

Crane heard a touch of urgency in the radio officer's voice. "Yes? "

"We've finally made contact with Admiral Nelson for you, sir. He says it's urgent.

Crane descended the sail ladder quickly, stripping off his parka and handing it to Sharkey, who was waiting. He took the microphone from Sparks' hands. "Admiral?"

"Lee! Where are you? "

"We'll reach Palmer in three hours, sir."

"Speed it up if you can, Lee."

"What's happening, Admiral! " Crane asked with a slight frown. He saw O'Brien cock his head towards the radio shack as the officer eavesdropped.

"The Falkland Islands were invaded – “

"Invaded! " Crane cut Nelson off out of sheer shock. "When? "

"On the second. Washington – “

"The second! "

"Yes, yes, what of it?"

"What time did they invade, Admiral?"

Sparks looked up at Crane’s tone, then quickly down. Something was definitely wrong and the Captain looked upset.

"Morning, sometime in the morning. Why?"

"Admiral, we left Doc Jamieson and Chip on East Falkland on the first. They were supposed to fly out on the second."

"What? You left Chip and Jamieson in the Falklands. Why?" A burst of static interrupted Nelson's transmission and Sparks, with an angry expression, re-tuned the radio.

"Chip contracted cholera in Argentina, Admiral. Putting them on a flight out of Port Stanley, was the fastest way of getting him to an American hospital," Crane replied.

"Why didn't I hear this before? " Nelson snapped.

"We couldn't reach you, sir," Crane said apologetically. "And the radio's been very erratic as well. We're looking at major repairs. "

He heard the Admiral mutter something. "Hurry up, Lee, I need to get aboard _Seaview,_ Nelson, out! "

"Aye, aye, sir! " Crane handed the microphone back to Sparks and went to the microphone off the periscope island. "Engine room, this is the Captain."

"Aye, sir?"

"I want flank speed till I say stop. Sharkey, get a deck party ready. When we arrive at Palmer, we'll need to tie up on the double."

"Aye, aye, sir! "

 

 

Jamieson listened to the sounds from the other side of the door to the small room he was confined in. Through the glass window in the door, he'd seen a couple of ambulances unloading wounded soldiers and Dr. Daniel, along with the other British and Argentine doctors, go outside.

In the six days since the invasion, rumors had flown in low muttered tones as people came and went. Outside, trucks rumbled through the captured city, but no real knowledge had reached those in the hospital.

Jamieson knew that transports had left for Uruguay deporting the Royal Marine captives. He had been offered a spot but refused until he could take Morton out with him. The Argentines had wasted no time putting someone else on the flight and handing the responsibility for the Americans over to Major Roca.

The doctor profoundly disliked the Argentine major, based on his order that Jamieson couldn't visit Morton for some reason the doctor didn't understand. The other doctors assured the American that Chip was doing well but Jamieson wanted to see for himself. He hadn't seen Sister Cornell since the invasion, either.

Jamieson regretted that his high school Spanish was so out of date or he might have been able to talk with the wounded men he tended. The doctor was restricted to tending the Argentine wounded and any wounded farmers while the Argentine doctors tended any British soldiers.

At the moment, Jamieson had only one patient in his small room, a dazed, wounded soldier with full-blown case of pneumonia who lay on a makeshift bed by the wall, muttering in Spanish. A pock-faced guard was seated at the other end of the room, curiously looking through a British magazine. The doctor rested his wounded knee on a chair and looked around the barren room.

Through a high, wire-barred window, he saw the reflection of the outer office. A familiar man was seated on a gurney guarded by two Argentine soldiers. Major Owen looked defiant as he shrugged off a dingy green shirt. His bruised muscular body was scratched as if he had hit something hard like rocks…or a concrete wall. The soldier, with an aloof expression, ignored the pain of the Argentinean doctor's examination. Finally he crossed his arms and stared straight ahead.

Jamieson wondered if there was some way he could reach the British major. There was no reason for him to even go near the door, and no way for him with his aching knee to escape fast where he was caught. Was it worth the risk? Yes. He stood up, stretched, then moved surreptitiously towards the door.

From the corner of his eye he saw the soldier look up, and the doctor stopped.

The soldier went back to studying the pages in his hand. Jamieson looked again at the reflection, saw Major Owen stand up and pull on his shirt. It would be his only chance to reach the Royal Marine.

He stepped towards the door, ignoring the shout of the guard.

A shadow darkened the glass then Major Roca appeared, blocking out the reflection. Jamieson automatically stepped back, feeling his knee give a sharp twinge, then felt the rough hand of the guard. The soldier dragged him back, shoving him on one of the chairs against the wall, as Major Roca turned the handle and came inside the room, shutting the door behind him.

Jamieson saw Owen's reflection walk away. He looked at Major Roca, who stared at him with avid curiosity.

The guard let out a flood of Spanish, waving at Jamieson, who defensively rested his arm on the back of the chair. He saw with puzzlement that Roca had a thick wad of paper tucked under one arm.

Major Roca listened, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Largo tells me you were trying to leave, Doctor," he said finally, his gaze on Jamieson.

"I needed some medicine for him," the doctor said waving at the wounded man.

"Indeed." Major Roca gave the man a cursory look. "I'm glad you are proving so helpful."

"I'm a doctor. It's my job," Jamieson snapped.

"Your job," Roca said speculatively, stepping closer than the doctor liked. He towered over the seated man. "And what about this, Doctor?" The Major slammed the paper down beside Jamieson, who in total astonishment, recognized the stained and tattered sheets. It was his rehabilitation paper. How on earth had Major Roca gotten his hands on it? "What...is.... How'd you get that?"

"You recognize it, then," the Major pursued moving even closer. "We found it in your room.”

Jamieson could smell an overwhelming sweet cologne along with the acrid scent of laundry detergent and deodorant. Unconsciously he leaned back, off-balance, trying to make some room between himself and Roca. "Of course. It's my paper," he said warily.

"It's your code book! " the Argentine replied with a harsh snap.

"Code book! " Jamieson stared at him a puzzled frown. "Code? "

"You and your friends are spies, correct?"

Jamieson stared at him with his mouth slightly ajar, his mind quickly changing ground. Did this crazy think he and Morton were intelligence agents? Good Lord. "No. "

The Major pointed to the text. "I have gone over that several times. I don't understand it!"

"But--but--I wrote it for a medical journal! Get a doctor to look at it," Jamieson sputtered. "He'll understand what I've written."

Roca suspiciously eyed him. "A doctor?"

"You know I'm a doctor! Just look at what I did in the garden! " the physician protested. "I'm no spy! Nor is Chip Morton! "

" 'Chip'?" the Major pounced, leaning one arm against the wall, and bending slightly so that Jamieson had to move back again. "Some kind of a code name, no doubt. "

"A nickname," Jamieson said desperately. The Major was intent on framing them one way or another. If he really thought Chip was a spy, then the sick man was in worse trouble than Jamieson. He felt a sudden surge of anger that made him stand, almost in Roca's face. The Argentine took a half-step back. "And I want to see him as soon as I can.”

"That is not possible," the Major snapped. "I have given orders for you to be restricted to this level."

"Why?" the doctor questioned angrily. "There is no reason that I should be even here. Both Commander Morton and I are neutrals covered by the Geneva Convention –

"You are spies," Roca said flatly, picking up the manuscript, "until I have proof otherwise. If you were not a doctor, I would have you in the prison. I will move your friend now if you persist in being annoying, Doctor. "

Jamieson stared at him, his head shaking slightly from side to side in sheer disbelief. "We're not spies. And if you move him, and he dies, I swear you and your country will pay for it!”

"Then don't try to contact anyone," Roca said harshly. "Otherwise I will treat you as a spy, Doctor, and have you shot alongside your friend. "

"But we're not spies!" Jamieson stormed. "This is ridiculous! "

The wounded soldier cried out and the doctor looked at him, seeing the man try to get up. He limped over.

"That's your patient now," Roca said with a slight smile. "Don't worry about your companion. As long as you help us, he'll be fine. "

Jamieson, struggling to hold the wounded man down, shot Roca a look of fury. "I hope that's not a threat, Major. My country takes threats very badly. "

"Your country doesn't know you are here," Roca replied smoothly opening the door. "No one has asked about you. That is a sure sign that you are a spy. I will see you later, Doctor. "

The wounded man collapsed and Jamieson quickly checked his pulse. Finding it strong, he turned to find Roca gone.

The doctor slapped his fist against the wooden wall in frustration, then gasped as a twinge of pain shot threw his leg. "Dammit. "


	5. April 8, 1982

The ship's clock showed the first minutes of a new day when Nelson came down the metal spiral ladder into the observation nose, rubbing his chin reflectively. Seated around the small table were Temple and Grant. Crane leaned on the metal banister that surrounded the Flying Sub hatch, his arms folded as they discussed the invasion.

"Well, Admiral?" Temple asked, seeing the older man come towards them. "What did your government have to say?"

Nelson pressed a button on the chart table and the doors closed behind him, sealing the nose off from the control room.

"Admiral?" Crane asked quietly. "Any word of Chip or Doc?"

"No. Admiral Pauley didn't even know they were there. Come here, Lee." Nelson took a map off the chart table and put it on the table between Temple and Grant. It showed the South Atlantic area from the Falklands and South Georgia Island to the tip of Cape Horn. The Antarctic Peninsula curved up like a feather up from the bottom of the chart.

Crane held down one edge as the Admiral held the other side. "Let's review what's gone on for the last few days. On April second, the Falklands were invaded by Argentina. By the fifth, the Argentines had total control of those islands and South Georgia here," his finger stabbed the island, "which is five hundred or so miles away. All these places are under curfew, according to the Argentine military dispatches that intelligence has intercepted. On the same day, the fifth, a British Navy task force of destroyers left Portsmouth heading for the Falklands. It will take the fleet two weeks to arrive. "

He unrolled another chart of thick paper and tacked it down with Grant's coffee cup and a small plate. "Here is a map of the Falkland Islands. These are two major islands, East and West Falkland, with, not surprisingly, the Falkland Sound running between them. There is an airfield on East Falkland close to Port Stanley, which is apparently being used to ship troops into the islands. Off West Falkland are a number of small islands called the archipelago. They are basically unmapped and the seas aren't that well-known so we'll have to keep an eye on our depth. "

Temple lifted his head pinning his sharp gaze on the Admiral. "Have to watch your depth, Admiral?"

Nelson ignored him for the moment. "Our Administration is trying to work out a peace plan but the sabers are rattling both in Britain and Argentina and neither will back down. " He leaned back on the table. "Now, as to our men. Washington says they have no record or information of either Chip or Doc arriving Stateside. The Argentines are barely speaking with us but have assigned a man, a Colonel Quadros, to make inquiries in Port  
Stanley. As far as it goes, our men have simply vanished. " The room was deadly silent.

"So what do we do! " Crane finally asked.

"We do nothing," the Admiral replied harshly. "Washington has ordered us not to become involved in the confrontation. "

Crane's expression was well-controlled, but Nelson knew his hot-tempered Captain was fuming. Only the presence of Grant and Temple kept Crane from going off like a volcano.

"So we're not going to help the UK?" Grant asked faintly puzzled. "That's not like them."

"The Administration is trying to mediate a compromise," Nelson said with notable lack of expression. "The Secretary of State is on his way to England right now. However, while Pauley says we aren't officially involved, certain agencies have asked that we cruise in the Scotia Sea and Drake Passage, and report anything we find to our base on Ascension Island

"Isn't Ascension where the British task force is gathering?" Temple asked, slightly amused.

"What happens to the information after we give it to the United States Naval authorities on Ascension is none of our business," Nelson said blandly, looking the scientist straight in the eye. "And if your Mister Foster is as good as you claim, Dr. Temple, you should have no problems listening in."

"Nothing like being a neutral country," Grant commented with a huge grin. "You'd better be careful, Admiral."

"Why?"

"Maybe discreet is a better word. Depending on your men's situation, the knowledge that your submarine is providing help to the British might cause the Argentines to look less fondly on your officers," Temple said bluntly, shooting Grant a look of understanding.

"So we'll sand off the serial numbers," Crane replied in a measured, controlled tone.

"You will be passing any information you get to us, Doctor Temple?"

The man spread his hands widely. "Certainly, Captain. After all, we're allies. I can get the code sets from Ascension. Admiral, if you give me a copy of the files on your officers, I might be able to get one of my contacts in the Falklands to look for them. "

Nelson frowned, uneasy with the idea.

Temple smiled sympathetically. "It might give them a bit more of a chance if my people know to look for them. "

"Certainly, Doctor," the Admiral agreed, with a trace of reluctance. "It'll be the common knowledge info – birthplace, schooling, etc. I'll send it to you before we sail. "

"Very good," Temple said, nodding. "That's all my people will need to know to find your officers."

"Doctors, I'm afraid you'll have to leave now. Lee, get _Seaview_ ready. I want to be in the Scotia Sea by day after tomorrow," Nelson said, ending the discussion.

Grant stood, picking up the parka from the empty chair beside him. "I'll be in touch with you then, Nelson, about anything I hear about the Convention."

The Admiral stared at him blankly then remembered why he had come to Antarctica.

Crane's news had driven it right out ofhis mind. "Thanks, Paul. It's a hell of a time to have to deal with politics as well as an invasion. "

"The invasion probably won't stop the United Nations from passing the Convention,” Temple said, shrugging into his parka.

“You aren't worried, Doctor, that the Argentines will try to take over Faraday station?" Crane questioned curiously.

The Briton let out a flicker of a smile. "The Antarctic Treaty states that 'Antarctica shall continue forever to be used exclusively for peaceful purposes'. Besides, if they took over Faraday, then other countries would have a reason to go after them using the excuse that the attacks breaks the treaty and Argentina is a threat. Upsets the balance of nature down here. I don't think I'll have to worry about any intruders."

"Well, be careful, Doctor," Nelson commented "Probably 'our people in the Falklands thought the same."

 

 

Jamieson finished bandaging the head of one of the farmers. "That'll hurt for a while, but it should heal cleanly," he commented. "We seem to be out of painkillers or I'd give you something for the ache."

The grizzled elderly man grinned at him showing a few crooked teeth. "Don't worry, laddie, a headache won't hurt me. I've got to get back to my sheep. "

"I thought everyone was under curfew, " Jamieson inquired casually.

"Oh, both islands are, but you can get around that pretty easily. The hills are full of hiding places. " The farmer winked. Jamieson wondered for a second what he was suggesting.

"I hear they're still looking for some of the people from Port Stanley who got out even though they finally caught those soldiers. And sooner or later the Argies are goin' to have to let us go back to work or they'll have no lamb to ship back home for that shiny new currency they're introducing. We'll all be living on the penguins. "

"Right you are, " Jamieson stripped off his rubber gloves and tossed them in a wastebasket. "Is that your escort?"

The man smiled at the blond woman who was standing in the hallway watching him. "My daughter, Amy. We're going to take the ferry back to West Falkland in a couple of hours. You're the American doctor, aren't you? How'd you get this job?" the man asked unexpectedly. "I would have expected the Argies would have shipped you out or interned you with the Marines. "

Jamieson grimaced, then looked both ways. An Argentine soldier stood next to Amy, and while the guard didn't seem to understand English, the doctor couldn't be sure of that. Two of the three British doctors had vanished one day leaving Jamieson and Daniel, along with three Argentinean doctors who the American was convinced understood English.

Jamieson couldn't afford to be deported now without knowing what had happened to Chip. "My friend's still here. It was help out or leave him behind."

"The boy with cholera?" the man asked softly.

The doctor gave him a startled look. This was a well-informed farmer. "Yes. "

"And how is he?"

"Better, almost well, I'm told. I haven't seen him since the troops arrived. Who are you?" Jamieson asked, staring at the grizzled face.

The man surveyed him for a second, then his bearded face crinkling into numerous wrinkles. "I'm just a farmer from West Falkland. My name's Justin Markle. I'm glad your man's...I hope your boy's going to recover," Markle said, his Island accent thickening, and his gaze going somewhere out the door behind the doctor. "I'll be on my way.”

"Well, you'd better check back in a couple of days," Jamieson commented. "I'd like to make sure your skull wasn't cracked." He helped Markle off the gurney and turned to find Major Roca standing in the doorway. The farmer stumped his way past the officer, the woman stepping forward to go with him out the door and the guard following closely behind.

"What do you want, Major?" Jamieson asked flatly, putting his hands on his hips.

The Argentine eyed him with suspicion, then cIosed the door, leaving the doctor alone in the small room.

  
Jamieson sighed and leaned against the gurney, his head drooping to his chest. He was tired, so bone tired that he was tempted to take a nap on the mattress behind him. The door opened and a pregnant woman entered, followed by a guard. The American straightened up, smiling weakly. "Hi, I'm Doctor Jamieson. Let me help you up here.”

 

Upstairs Chip was lying on his flat bed, turning his head so he could keep an eye on the entire room. He felt much better, but a covert stumble around the ward when all the others were asleep had shown his weakness. Sister Cornell had helped pasting a fake intravenous tube to his right arm.

Major Roca stepped inside the ward and paused, his gaze sweeping the filled room. At one end, Sister Cornell saw the officer and froze, glancing towards Chip, then turned back to the wounded man she was tending, tucking the bedding in more securely. Two of the beds were curtained off, the wounded given some privacy as orderlies went about their business.

Chip saw Roca approach and consciously forced himself to relax, letting his lids droop over his blue eyes. He hoped his pallor could be chalked up to his being very ill.

Roca abruptly pulled the white drapes closed on both sides.

"Are you awake?" Roca asked mildly.

Morton didn't move.

Roca looked over the prostrate form, then reached down and smashed his fist on Chip's ankle.

Chip gave a sharp gasp and his lids flew open.

"Ah, you are awake," Roca said lazily. "I thought that might be the case. "

"What do you want?" Chip asked shakily, as the pain slowly subsided.

"I think it is time that we had a little talk about what you are doing here," Roca replied. "You and the Doctor are spies, correct?"

"Wha?" Morton said in sheer disbelief.

"Spies. For the Central Intelligence Agency. I have seen that paper your doctor made. "

"You're crazy! " Chip sputtered. What paper? He pulled himself further up the pillow, feeling weakness in his muscles. " I'm not a spy! Neither's Doc. Just ask the American Embassy in Argentina. Someone has to have asked about us! "

"No one in the United States has inquired about you or your partner, Commander Morton. You don't seem to exist, " Major Roca commented, assessing the effects of his words. "Spies who have secret documents in their rooms disappear in the mists of war? "

"What secret documents? Are you threatening me, Major!" Chip shifted, against the pillows, his blue eyes bright with anger.

"Don't be rash, Commander. Remember your friend downstairs," Roca said bluntly.

"You're threatening Doc?" Chip's fair skin flushed, though his tone was tensely controlled.

"Should the British choose to bomb us, he is in the primary target area. I can have his death written off as a casualty of war unless you cooperate with me," the Major suggested, leaning on the white-painted metal end of the bed.

Morton pulled himself further up in the bed, the fake tubing swinging at his motion. His color faded until he was nearly as pale as the sheets. "lf Doctor Jamieson dies, his death will not be written off as 'just a casualty of war'. I'll make sure of that."

The Argentine hesitated, hearing concentrated menace in the low voice. Then he shrugged. "If he dies here, it will be because of something you do. Remember that. Unless, of course, he becomes a 'casualty of war' accidentally. "

"Touch him and _Seaview_ 'll blow you apart, Major. I'll personally sight the torpedo," Chip threatened, fury cracking his self-control.

"Only if you can reach your submarine, Commander Morton. " Roca reached out and yanked out the tubing, seeing the end without a needle. "So I thought. You are well enough to move. I have a small hut on West Falkland where we wilI talk for a long time about things I have read in my files. "

Chip watched the man fling back one set of curtains and stride out of the room. Experimentally Morton flexed his muscles, feeling them protest. He tried to sit up and the ward spun before his eyes. Cursing under his breath, he fell back into the pillows. The curtain on the other side of his bed was drawn back by Sister Cornell who paled at the sight of the unattached tubing. Roca knew about the trick she had pulled.

"He's after Doc," Chip whispered warningly. "And he's going to move me to somewhere on West Falkland."

She gave him a slight nod of understanding. "Keep still now, Commander. I'll take care of this "

"Yes, Ma'am." Chip settled back, his mind working on the problem of escape. He tried not to think of the man downstairs who didn't know the danger he was in and the nurse who was now endangered because Roca knew the truth.


	6. April 11, 1982

Roca sat behind his desk and slowly deciphered the coded message brought to few minutes earlier. He had been given a tiny office in Government House towards the back of the building. It enraged him that an officer of his rank should have such a small room, but he kept control of his emotions in front of his superiors. Soon he'd have enough money to leave the army behind and live a life of luxury in another country. Just one last transaction...and the Americans had so conveniently given him a gold mine with their officers.

He leaned back and read carefully over the translated sheet.

'Morton, Charles: b. Cedar Rapids, IA. Grad. Annapolis (2nd in class); assign. _Sunfish_ , _Seawolf_ Current status: Naval Resv. Current Assignment. SSRN _Seaview_ , Exec. Officer.

Jamieson, William: b. Syracuse, NY; Grad. Annapolis, MD, Walter Reed, Johns Hopkins, NIH; Service: Korea, Vietnam. Current status: Nav, Resv, Naval  Medical Svcs, Nelson Inst. Marine Studies, Santa Bar., CA,USA. _Seaview_ ; nuclear power, nuclear weapons, top experimental submarine; currently in Antarc. waters.'

Interesting, he mused, tearing the telex into small fragments and burning them in the half-filled ashtray. He took out another cigar and lit it, then leaned back puffing. So, this Morton’s the Executive Officer of a nuclear submarine. He must have information that would be worthwhile. Would my friends be interested in him? The doctor...worthless man. Just another medico. But Morton...I should be able to get enough money to pay for this sheet Of information. Of course, this means that they aren't spies after all. _What is in the doctor's paper then?_

The phone on his desk rang and he picked up the receiver. "Hello!"

"Major Roca!" The cultured voice had the unmistakable ring of authority

"Si?"

"This is Colonel Rodrigo Quadros in Buenos Ares. I have been trying to reach you for several days. "

"I've been in the field with the troops, Colonel. How may I help you?" Roca replied, wondering what it was about. He didn't know a Quadros.

"I have been asked to inquire after two American sailors who were apparently in Port Stanley when we attacked," Quadros stated. "Other officers said you were the one to speak with since you secured the hospital, and have been nominally in charge there. "

The blood drained from Roca's face and he sank back on the edge of the desk. "Americans! Ah, the Americans. Yes. "

"Then they are there!"

"Only the doctor. He insisted on staying to help Dr. Daniel at the hospital. I sent the other one out with the British prisoners to Uruguay," Roca answered smoothly, though he licked his lips nervously. "Didn't he arrive, Colonel?"

“No. I will have the manifests rechecked, Major, " Quadros replied, with a touch of exasperation. "The Americans are pressing us to find their men. "

“You don't believe my report?" Roca asked, silkily interjecting an undercurrent of menace into his voice.

A moment of silence before Quadros said, "I have read your file, Major, and know your qualifications. I must check so that we may reassure the Americans. I will be arriving in a week with the Red Cross so that the world will see that we have treated the islanders and the prisoners according to the Geneva Conventions. I look forward to meeting you in person, Major. Until then, good luck.”

“Thank you, sir," Roca said into a dead phone. He hung up the receiver and glanced down at the hand-written sheet in his hands.

“A week, " he muttered. "Commander Morton must be gone before this Quadros arrives. With this new information, I have all the pieces. " _And if my friends don't wish him, I will dispose of him over the cliffs. Largo and Jorge will feed him to the fishes. I will be gone from the Falklands before ColoneI Quadros arrives and then it won 't matter what the medico might say._ ” He folded up the sheet and put it in his pocket. Picking up his heavy jacket, he slung it over his uniform and quickly left his office.

 

 

Jamieson shivered in the cold air of the front hallway. The gales that swept over the islands kept the temperatures below freezing, and he was feeling the chill in his bones as he hugged the thick bridge coat around him and limped towards the dining room.

From his own private observations, his knee was getting worse. The Argentine doctor who had examined it prescribed a bandage and painkillers, but Jamieson refused to take any drugs that might inhibit his ability to reach Morton at any point.

Most nights the pain had subsided to a dull throb but when he had to move about or bend the joint, it flared up again. His duties in the emergency room as Argentines had consolidated their hold on the island and Jamieson had taken advantage of this to rest his leg.

The provision about him not treating the troops had vanished the day Dr. Daniel invaded Jamieson's small room, requesting help with a rash of frostbitten Argentine troops shipped in without proper arctic gear. The flimsy tents erected for the soldiers were no match for the fifteen-knot winds that normally cooled the Islands and the wave of storms had left many of the invaders cold, wet, and miserable. Jamieson had also dealt with a rash of the flu.

The doctor wondered what Major Roca was going to do when he was presented with the situation. He hadn't seen the Argentine officer for two days.

Outside the front door, he heard the omnipresent sound of a sentry pacing and the occasional roar of a truck. The Argentinean Army liked to move at daybreak and had imported a number of trucks to help move supplies to their troops. Many of the wounded had complained bitterly that the island's twelve miles of roads were inadequate at the very least to the task of getting to the outlying areas. Jamieson's personal opinion was that if the Argentines didn't like the roads, they'd have to build new ones. The attack had smashed the road outside the hospital, Jamieson noted through the oil-skin covering of the broken window by the front door.

He heard rustling and saw Sister Cornell standing on the upper landing talking to a guard. The woman looked worn out.

"Sister?" Jamieson called. He hadn't seen her since the day of the attack.

"Doctor!" she replied waving her hand urgently for him to come upstairs.

 _Oh, God, was it Chip! Don't say he'd had a relapse?_ Without thinking of the consequences, Jamieson started up the stairs, then his knee gave ou4. He gave a cry of pain and twisted into a heap on the steps. Pain shot through his leg as he saw black spots before his eyes.

He heard a rustle of skirts and, through a film of tears, saw Sister Cornell beside him. "Doctor Jamieson?"

"Damn! "

"Is it your knee? Don't move," she whispered as she leaned him back against the wall. "I have some news for you. Your friend is being moved tonight."

Jamieson gasped as her hands touched his swollen knee. "What?"

"Hush! Major Roca's taking him out today to some hut on West Falkland. I think he plans to interrogate him," she said softly.

The pain swelled again, clouding Jamieson's mind. "Interrogate.... "

"You can't move like this and, anyway, the guard will stop you. I'll get one of the doctors. Stay here."

He heard her skirts rustle as she left him. Gritting his teeth, he tried to sit up, but passed out instead.


	7. April 12, 1982

Kowalski fine-tuned the sonar console, listening for anything unusual. The submarine the maintained battle stations with every man aboard knowing what had happened on Falklands and that their officers had vanished. There was considerable talk in the crew's wardroom about invading the islands themselves to find Doc and Mister Morton.

Ping! Kowalski’s attention was instantly affixed to the sonar display.

Another dot, this time larger. The man frowned, and checked the machinery for a malfunction, then swiveled in his chair. "Skipper! "

Crane raised his head from the chart he was examining. "Kowalski?”

“Sir, I've got an object off the port bow, heading straight for the Islands?”

The Captain was beside him immediately, and out of the corner of his eye, Kowalski saw everyone else raise their heads and exchange glances. A thread of excitement flowed through the control room.

"Can you identify it, 'Ski?" Crane asked.

“Not yet, sir. It's almost out of range."

"Any idea of what it was?"

"Metallic, sir, from the contact. "

Crane picked up the mike and clicked twice. “Admiral? This is Crane.”

“Yes, Lee?” Nelson’s familiar tones sounded calm. Kowalski knew the Admiral had just finished the last shift and must be beat.

"We have an object --

"A ship, sir, " Kowalski interrupted. "I've got it again. It's got the signature of a submarine, skipper! "

"A submarine heading for the Falklands, sir," Crane concluded, his gaze riveted on the sonar screen.

"Are you sure it isn't British!" Nelson asked. "Supposedly they've got three or four down here now and the task force should be here in a day or so."

"No, Sir! " Kowalski said sharply interrupting Crane. "This has the signature of... of a Russian submarine. And there's a second one as well. What are they doing down here?"

Crane met his puzzled stare with a speculative look, and clicked on the microphone. "Sir, Kowalski says it's a pair of Russian submarines. Shall we follow them?"

"Yes. I'll be right down. Nelson out."

"Yes, sir! Good work, Kowalski. " Crane clicked the microphone once. "Navigation, come to course one-five-oh, Engineering, maintain speed. "

"Yes, sir," said the engine room officer.

"Sir?" Kowalski turned in his chair as Crane stepped back to the chart table.

"Yes, Kowalski?"

The rating slid his headphones off and stepped closer. "What about Mister Morton and Doc?”

Crane stiffened but met Kowalski's eyes unflinchingly. "The Admiral says we can't interfere in this war, even if it is undeclared. There's no new information on them. "

“But if there was?" Kowalski persisted.

“Then... I'll reconsider."

“Yes, sir...and if the Captain needs some help... "

“Are you volunteering, Kowalski?" Crane asked with a serious undertone in his voice.

"Yes, sir!"

“I’ll keep it in mind. " Crane saw Nelson come down the spiral staircase at a dangerous speed. "Get a reading on those subs, 'Ski.”

"Aye, aye, sir. "


	8. April 15, 1982

Jamieson spent a full day in a bed before he convinced Dr. Daniel that he was well enough to work. The British doctor ordered him to do half-shifts and left the ship’s doctor to get dressed and go back to work.

As he pulled on his well-creased dingy shirt and pants, Jamieson wondered what had happened to Chip. The doctor hadn’t seen Sister Cornell since the morning she’d talked with him, and Roca had vanished as well. Dr. Daniel had no idea of what had happened to the nurse and wasn’t going to discuss it with Jamieson when he had a room full of soldiers who needed care.

The officer fixed his tie, and picked up the now-worn navy blue bridge coat, throwing it over his left arm. He limped out the door, and down the staircase to the main hallway, gingerly testing the knee with each step.

A hand caught his arm, shaking him out of his concentration. "Doctor?"

The voice was familiar. Jamieson looked up and smiled. "Mister Markle! I vou’d have thought you'd have been back with the sheep by now?"

The grizzled farmer smiled at him. “It’s my head, Doctor. Still hurts and my daughter, brought me back."

"Well, you'd better let me see it, then," Jamieson declared, turning towards his own small room. He felt his knee catch and pain over  
farmer's arm as he stumbled, his face going ashen.

"What -- let me help you, doctor," Markle said solicitously as the doctor leaned heavily on him. The guard taking up position by the door.

Jamieson sank into one of the chairs with a grimace.

"Seems to me you should be in a bed, doctor," Markle observed. "What happened?"

"I ripped my knee in the attack and haven't had time to rest it," Jamieson said, his voice still shaky with shock. This was the worst the knee had been since he'd collapsed on the stairs. "I'll be fine in a moment. "

"Really!" Markle looked at him skeptically. "They should ship you out, Doctor. They're sending out the last of the Royal Marines in a couple of days."

"Roca says I don't exist, and no one's out there looking for me. " Jamieson straightened up cautiously and flexed his knee. No pain this time. He'd just have to be careful when he walked. "Besides I have to watch out for Chip."

"Your laddie?"

The doctor glanced at the guard, then back at the farmer. The man's eyes appeared guileless but Jamieson felt that there was far more to the man than met the eye. But could he trust him.

_Can I trust anyone?_

Abruptly Jamieson cast caution to the wind. This might be the only opportunity to get the word out of the hospital. "Better let me see that head, Mister Markle." His hands began unwrapping the stained gauze bandage as he whispered, "Major Roca's taken Commander Morton somewhere on West Falkland, from what I heard."

“West Falkland! " Markle commented in an interested tone. "My farm's out there. "

“Someone heard something mentioned about a hut, " Jamieson said softly as he uncovered the head wound. It was healing nicely. He put the stained bandage in the small metal bowl next to him and Iimped to small pile of supplies beside the sink. Picking up a bottle of antiseptic and another bandage, he came back to the farmer who was watching him with an uncomfortably sympathetic look.

“And why would you be telling me this, Doctor?" Markle inquired. "The Argies are jailing people who don't follow their rules. I could get two months for just listening to you. " His accent changed momentarily into something far more precise.

Jamieson met Markle's gaze with his own look of frustration and exhaustion. "I really don't know. I suppose someone should know besides me. The nurse who told me isn't here anymore. Vanished. "

“Indeed, " Markle said thoughtfully. "Can you be looking at my head now, doctor? "

Jamieson noticed the guard coming closer, his gaze suspicious about their soft-voiced conversation. "Yes. Sit still and this won't hurt a bit. Then I'll rebandage it and you can go. "

"Don't worry about your laddie," Markle said suddenly after Jamieson applied the medicine and was wrapping the gauze in a headband to keep the bandage from moving. "I'll take care of that if I can. Watch out for yourself."

"I will," Jamieson promised tucking in the end of the gauze. "As soon as I know what's happened to Chip."


	9. April 16, 1982

Chip restlessly paced the length of the chain attached between his ankle and the wall. It gave him a semi-circle of seven feet barely enough room to reach the stove in one corer of the hut, and the blanket which had been his primary bed for the last four days since Roca and his men had dragged him out of the hospital and brought him to the drafty wooden hut.

He wore a baggy, stained tan coverall over a green-black cable-knit sweater, a strip of blanket around his neck as a scarf which he put over his ears if it got too cold and worn battered black combat boots that were too large of his feet. He was leaner than he had been years due to a combination of cholera and inadequate food. The sharp edge of hunger made him even angrier at the guard whose main job was to fill the hut with rank smoke from his cigarettes, and to listen to the radio, which was tuned to Radio Argentina. Moron was thoroughly sick of martial music and wailing Spanish love songs.

But the woman shivering in the cold opposite him ws the major reason he was packing restlessly. When Sister Cornell came in as Roca wheeled Morton from the hospital, she’d been taken as well, ending up on another chain fastened to the other wall. Their circles of contact intersected at only one point so Chip couldn’t even reach the older woman for the most part. He’d seen her energy diminish as she tried to cope with the sub-zero temperatures and the possibility of permanent captivity. He had given her the military-issue parka that Roca left for him along with the sleeping bag, making do with a worn blankets.

Morton wondered what Major Roca had in mind for the woman. He worried about the Argentine planned to do with him. Despite the promise of interrogation, the officer had visited just once, briefly, barked an order at the guard, then headed back to civilization.

Chip swung around and met her gaze as across the room a smile on her lips. Her hair hung in strands across her face, and she had a smudge of dirt on one cheek.

"Don't wear yourself out, Commander," the nurse suggested.

"It keeps me warm," Chip replied, swinging his arms in the air.

They heard the sound of crunching feet and the guard opposite them abandoned his cigarette, springing to attention as the door was pushed open.

Despite the blast of icy wind and a few snowflakes, Chip welcomed the arrival of Major Roca. The hut was badly ventilated and the guard's cigarette smoke created an oppressive cloud that permeated everything. Outside he saw a rolling barren landscape with patches of snow among the rocks.

Roca stamped his feet, shedding snow, and took off the billed cap that covered his ears. His face was ruddy from the cold and his moustache had ice crystals in it.

"And for what do we owe this visit?" Morton asked lazily, his hands on his hips, his tone was slightly contemptuous as well as casual, as if he didn't consider the armed officer any real challenge.

Roca smiled at him, his yellowed teeth appearing briefly through the dark mustache. "I said we would talk, Commander Morton."

Chip's casualness was replaced with suspicion, but he didn't let a trace show on his face. He felt his muscles tense. "About what, Major Roca?"

"About this. " Roca pulled a tattered manuscript from his deep parka pocket and tossed it at Morton's feet.

The officer warily picked it up, not letting his gaze drift from the Argentine. Once he was standing, he looked down, seeing Seaview's familiar logo and an unfamiliar title. The byline was Lieutenant Commander William Jamieson.

"Oh, that paper you were so upset about," Chip commented, ruffling the pages in his ands recognizing about one word in three. It was written in medical terminology.

"I took that to a doctor and he said it was just a medical journal article on rehabilitation," Roca said.

"As Doctor Jamieson probably said it was," Sister Cornell murmured in a low voice.

"So, if you are not a spy, Commander, what should I do with you?" Roca asked, ignoring the woman.

Chip flicked his gaze from the manuscript to the officer. "Let us go! "

"Ah, but I know so much about you now, Commander Morton. Graduate of Annapolis, second in your class, you served on attack submarines before going to work for an Admiral Nelson, who has one of the largest nuclear submarines in the American fleet. You have been _Seaview'_ s Executive officer for many, many years. "

Chip eyed him, his senses suddenly alert to a new danger. How did this man know so much about him! And about _Seaview_? "Well, I'm not going to tell you about it. "

The Argentine smiled lazily, his eyes as cold as an iceberg. "I could make you. There are many ways. But I have other plans for you, Commander. "

"Like what! " Chip inquired warily. He suspected he wasn't going to like Roca's plan.

Roca smiled thinly as he pulled on his heavy gloves. "t will be back in a couple of days. Don't try to escape. Largo has orders to kill. " He waved to the guard who was still at attention.

Morton looked at Largo, then back to Roca. "What are you going to do with us, Roca?"

"Us! You are worth a lot of money. As for the nurse," Roca looked at her for a second, then shrugged. "I will deal with her later. "

Cornell opened her mouth then shut it, raising her chin and staring at him.

"I have ordered Largo to provide you with some lamb," the Major said unexpectedly. "A sheep wandered into the mine fields around here. Have a good meal."

"Our last?"

Chip's inquiry cut through the Major's complacency and the Argentine flushed. "Only if you make it so," Roca replied abruptly. He walked out of the hut before Chip could answer, the guard, Largo, following him.

Morton looked over at the woman, then down at the manuscript in his hands. "So this is the reason why he thought Doc was a spy!"

"May I see it, Commander!" she asked holding up her hands.

He walked over to the point closest to her and tossed the paper gently so that it landed in front of her. She picked it up, reading the first page.

"He told me about this," Cornell said finally looking up. "The first night you spent in the hospital."

"Who -- oh, Doc!" Morton shrugged and wandered to the opposite side of the hut to glare at the stove just a foot out of his reach.

"Yes. It's quite good," she commented, reading the first page. "I can see why Roca wouldn't understand the terminology, though. "

"I hope Doc has another draft," Chip said pacing back and forth. "Because we're probably going to have to burn that one to keep warm. "

She laughed. "You're both practical men, Commander. He'd probably hand you the matches.”

Chip grinned reluctantly. "And ask why I hadn't started the moment Roca tossed it me.”

"Do you have any idea what he has planned! " the nurse asked. "Any ideas?

“Not one,” Morton replied. But I’m worth cash, apparently. I wonder who he’s selling me to?”

Cornell glanced at him startled. “That’s right. He said you were worth some money.”

“I have a feeling that Major Roca has just gone into free enterprise,” Chip said ebulliently, his earlier frustration dissipated with some new information to mull over.

"Another practical man. " She tore off a couple of pages and came over to where she could hand them to him. "Let's light a fire. I'm freezing. "

"We could set fire to the hut," he mused looking around.

“Only if you can be sure that they’ll rescue us,” Cornell said sharply. “And I wouldn’t count on that, Commander!”

The door clattered open as Largo came back in, a haunch of sleep balanced on his shoulder. Cornell retreated while Chip looked down at the sheet of paper in his hands. As the soldier cut slices off the sheep, Morton rolled the paper into a cone, and held it to the stove where it caught fire. He carried the flickering flame back to where the nurse was wadding up the manuscript.

 

Nelson paced through the control room up to the observation nose. His hands clenched in his pockets, he gazed out at the murky black waters, feeling frustration wash over him.

It had been almost two weeks since Doc and Chip had vanished into the Falklands War and the longer the standoff between Great Britain and Argentina continued, the less hope Nelson held out for his missing officers. Washington had told him they were working on finding the missing men but the Admiral had little doubt that politics was taking precedence over his people. And to cap it off, the new radio was again working erratically, while the older one couldn't pick up all the coded messages. At the moment, the new set was cooperating but Nelson knew that Sparks longed to get back to Santa Barbara where he could rip the stupid machine apart and rebuild it properly,

Crane was asleep after pulling two-and-a-half shifts. It had taken Nelson's direct order to get the Captain to his cabin and even the logic that a tired officer wouldn’t do the captured men no use hadn't helped. The last two days of running silent as _Seaview_ tailed the Russian submarines was hard work for everyone. The Russians had met up with a surface vessel that looked like a surveillance by periscope identified as a trawler festooned with an array of antennas. More likely a spy ship than a fishing boat, was the general consensus. _Seaview_ retreated far enough to send a report to Ascension and had been ordered to keep watch but not interfere. The submarines had headed out of the Scotia Sea while the trawler cruised closer  
to West Falkland. Nelson decided to follow the trawler.

"Sir! I've got something! " Sparks leaned over the chart table to whisper to the Admiral.

"What! " Nelson followed Sparks back to the radio shack where the radio officer reseated himself in front of the console and handed the Admiral a pair of earphones.

"It's coming from West Falkland, sir," Sparks said. "Aimed at the trawler."

"What are they saying?" Nelson listened carefully, wishing he knew Spanish better.

"They're setting up a meeting," Sparks translated as he concentrated.

The Admiral looked surprised. "You know Spanish?"

"I'm fluent in it, sir. Someone named Roca, no, a Major Roca, wants to meet with the Captain of the trawler. He says...he has something important to sell." Sparks flicked on a recorder at Nelson's gesture. There was a burst of static and both men froze in anticipation of losing contact, then the dialogue from shore to ship resumed. Nelson let out a silent sigh of relief.

"Sell!" The Admiral shook his head. "What do you think it could be?"

Sparks held up his hand. "A...person. Roca wants money for...selling someone to the Russians."

"One of the British officers?" Nelson wondered aloud.

"The Russian's saying something I don't understand," Sparks confessed. "I don't speak the language."

"Kowalski! " The Admiral called softly. The rating turned from the sonar. "I need your Russian now.”

Kowalski handed his headset to Patterson, who took his place, and donned headphones Nelson held out. His face wrinkled in concentration. "The Russian says that with the British fleet nearly...nearly here, he can't afford to be caught nearby. "

Nelson chuckled dryly. "The Russians have the same problem we do. Neither of us can get involved."

"Roca's getting angry. He says that his prisoner is worth the risk. He says that Prokhorov, who must be the captain of the trawler, can't afford to lose out on this. The man's an officer in... " Sparks' voice trailed off as he went white with shock. His jaw dropped.

"What?" Nelson demanded, his voice unexpectedly loud.

"An American. He's an American. "

Kowalski flicked a glance at Nelson, who stared at the radio man with a set expression, his only outward agitation the clenching and unclenching of one fist.

"Chip or Doc?" Nelson finally asked.

"The Russian says that Americans are a dime a dozen," Kowalski broke in. "What's so special about this one?"

Sparks continued, "Roca's furious. He's telling Prokhorov that the submarine program can use the man's expertise -- "

"Chip," Nelson said, his hand reaching for the intercom.

"And he's only going to keep him another forty-eight hours," the radio officer concluded.

Nelson clicked the mike. "Captain Crane, come to the control room on the double." He clicked the microphone twice. "Engine room, all back full."

“The Russian says, ‘no go,’ Admiral,” Kowalski reported. “He’s signed off.” He handed the headphones to Sparks who flicked off the recorder.

Nelson stared at him. "How good's your spoken Russian, 'Ski?"

"Sir!" the rating looked at him startled.

"Mine's rusty. Can you imitate Prokhorov?" the Admiral persisted.

"Imitate? Yes, sir, but – “

"Good. We'll get a bit closer to West Falkland and call up this Roca and set up that meeting for two days from now, " Nelson said triumphantly. "Sparks, can you make the radio work that long!\?"

Sparks shook his head ruefully. "I'll try, sir. The crewman stared at the Admiral with disbelief mixing with admiration in his eyes. "And we'll get Mister Morton back, sir?"

Nelson clapped him on the arm. "Exactly! "


	10. April 18, 1982

"I'm not sure I'm going to ever eat lamb again," Chip commented mildly, brushing at the stains on the front of his coverall. "But it does make a change from Argentine C-rations."

"I think I swallowed a piece of shrapnel this morning," Cornell chuckled from the other side of the small fire. Largo had surveyed it, nodded his understanding, and given Chip several pieces of wood to burn. They had discussed the danger of carbon monoxide poisoning and decided to risk it or they'd freeze to death. The smoke drove Largo outside for longer periods, giving the prisoners much needed nicotine-free air along with a chilling wind that threatened to put out the small fire.

"If the sheep wander into the mine fields, it's a waste to leave good meat lying around," Morton joked.

She laughed. "Your sense of humor has come back, Commander."

Chip paused, looking at her. "What do you know about my sense of humor?"

"Oh, I know more about you than you think, Commander Morton. I had a long discussion with the doctor," she said with an amused smile.

The officer frowned as he poked at the fire. The last wood end caught and burned, lighting the small hut. "What do you think happened to Doc?"

"Doc? Oh, Doctor Jamieson. I hope he is doing better. I was fetching one of the Argentinean doctors for him when they dragged me off here. "

"What! You were getting him a doctor?" Chip looked at her haggard face.

"Of course. He was in severe pain. Somehow he hurt his knee," she explained, feeding another sheet of manuscript into the fire.

"What!" Morton stared at her in disbelief. "You didn't tell me he got hurt,"

"It hasn't seemed pertinent in the last couple of days," she said placidly, looking at him. "We can't do anything for him."

"We can't do anything for ourselves either," Chip muttered. "I hope Roca shipped him out on the next hospital plane now that I'm here. Doc's a swell guy."

"I doubt that Major Roca will be that considerate. He seems to dislike your doctor intensely, " she commented shifting position. "Even Dr. Daniel commented on it. I think Major Roca must have been part of Argentine death squads."

"Why do you think that?" Chip asked rubbing his hands together and flexing them towards the warmth. The long fingers were filthy from being used to eat. Hygiene had been barely adequate in the small hut.

She shrugged. The movement was imperceptible in the huge parka. "I have been thinking about the money he says he's getting for you. The only conclusion I come up with is that Major Roca will need a great deal of money if the Argentinean Junta makes good on their promises to prosecute the Secret Police. "

"I remember reading about the Secret Police but -- "

"They're blaming the disappearance of thousands of people on them. They call the lost people, desaparecidos'. "

"You know a lot about this, Sister," Chip commented, holding out his hands to the embers. They were chafed and cracked from the cold.

"I listen to the Spanish news broadcasts," she laughed. "I used to discuss them with a young man named Alex Foster who was part of the garrison. He knew all about Argentina. "

"You speak Spanish then?"

"It's almost a necessity down here," the nurse said, putting another sheet on the fire.

"What else did Doc tell you?" he asked abruptly, his gaze far away.

"Well, we talked about your submarine and the men aboard it, and how they seem to reluctant to come to his office," she teased him lightly.

Morton grinned. "It's not the company, 'cause Doc's a good bridge player. It's just that he has so many things that taste bad in Sick Bay."

"You sound like a ten-year-old," she scolded. Her gaze searched the face of the man opposite her. Despite the silky beard and the ragged hair which barely touched the collar of the coveralls, he looked like he was barely out of his teens. "You are very fond of him, aren't you! " she probed gently.

"Doc? " Chip paused for a second, then smiled, staring down at the fire. "] wouldn't think of it that way but I guess I am. Jamieson's an old-fashioned pragmatic family doctor who won't let you get away with a thing. I wouldn't have him any other way. "

"And what about your Admiral and the Captain? " she asked. "I know something about them from Doctor Jamieson. Tell me more. "

"Why?" he said, folding his knees up under his chin and crossing his arms on top, resting his chin on his forearms.

"To pass the time away," she said quietly, the fear coming into her voice despite her calm. "Talk to me, please. Tell me about your boat. "

 

 

Overhead the moon glowed through a thin layer of clouds and the patchy ice gleamed among the rocky terrain. It was the first break in the weather since the beginning of the month and Nelson welcomed it as he, Kowalski, Sharkey and Patterson disembarked from a rubber raft.

Kowalski wore the uniform of a Captain in the Russian Navy and was painfully conscious that tonight, at least, he outranked his Admiral, who wore the seaman's uniform that the Chief had unearthed in stores. Sharkey and Patterson wore dark parkas over their fatigues with M-16 rifles held ready in their arms.

"Remember to keep a good distance away from us. You're only supposed to shoot if Roca gives us trouble," the Admiral ordered the Chief. "Let's go, Ski."

"Aye, aye, Sir. " As he passed Patterson, his friend gave him a wicked grin which Kowalski resolved to wipe off his face as soon as they got back to the submarine. He didn't like wearing this uniform and if the Admiral's Russian hadn't been so rusty, Kowalski would be on sniper duty, not Patterson, with Chief Sharkey in the Russian seaman's uniform. As it was, Kowalski realized that he would be doing most of the negotiating with Major Roca, and that made him nervous enough.

Following the Argentine's instructions, they climbed over granite rock towards the small cluster of huts set on a small hill overlooking the bay.

Kowalski unconsciously noted that the rugged landscape around them could hide a multitude of soldiers. The crunch of shale beneath their boots echoed loudly among the rocks as they walked towards the only hut that had a light outside. A battered and muddy Land Rover was parked behind it.

Kowalski took a deep breath, straightened up, consciously patterning his stance on the Admiral's, and walked toward the light, Nelson following close behind. Patterson and Sharkey vanished into the darkness around them.

The door opened and a burly man wearing a heavy drab parka, billed cap and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck came outside. He lit a cigarette, tossed the match onto the rocky ground, and waited, puffing, his smoke making a hazy cloud in front of the door.

Kowalski and the Admiral stopped five feet away from the building. The man looked from one face to the other and smiled, his teeth gleaming in his beard.

"Major Roca?" Kowalski asked in Russian, breaking the silence.

" Captain Prokhorov?" the Argentinean inquired lazily in the same language.

"Yes. Do you have the man?"

"Inside. " Roca switched to Spanish. "Jorge, stay outside." Roca waved to a guard, armed with a pistol and a machine gun, who stepped out of the shadows to stand guard.

Kowalski knew he had to take the risk of going inside. Any false move and Roca might kill them all. "Follow me," he ordered the Admiral, who nodded, his lined face set impassively.

Roca stepped inside and the others followed. It took a second for Kowalski's eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and the heavy smell of smoke. e stopped dead when he saw the two prisoners, guarded by a soldier on either side.

He had never seen Mister Morton so scruffy. He had a ragged beard, filthy face and the blond hair was falling into his eyes. The grimy coverall was too large and the boots looked worn and cracked. The lamp's light glinted off the shiny handcuffs on Morton's wrists and that of the woman beside him. The Exec's expression was familiar to Kowalski -- controlled, alert, and ready to take any opportunity for action. From a flicker of recognition, before his face went impassive, Kowalski knew that Morton recognized Kowalski and the Admiral in the Russian uniforms.

The woman standing beside Morton wore a dirty nurse's outfit with a parka over it. Her hair hung in strands over her face and she looked mortally afraid.

"So this is your prisoner," Kowalski finally said in Russian. "Why is he worth what I'm paying?"

"Commander Morton is off the United States nuclear submarine _Seaview,_ " Major Roca replied in the same language. "I captured him when we took Port Stanley. I saw an opportunity for both of us in this, "

"Very true," Kowalski said, surveying the defiant officer in front of him. "But I am not sure he will cooperate."

Roca shrugged. "We both know there are ways to make anyone cooperate. So is he worth the price we set? Twenty thousand dollars?"

"I believe so," Kowalski hedged.

"How is the money getting to me? It will be in United States dollars, correct! " Roca asked in English.

Startled, the rating looked at him. In that horrified second, Kowalski knew that the game was lost.

Major Roca pulled out his pistol and stepped back. "I thought you weren’t Prokhorov! Your voice is different! Who are you?"

The woman screamed, distracting the guards on either side of her and Morton for just a second. Chip swung on his guard, catching the rifle muzzle in his handcuffs and sending both himself and the man against the wooden wall, which shuddered under the impact. The gun went off in a loud burr, deafening in the small room. Cornell clawed at the other guard at the same moment Nelson flung himself to the left, separating himself from Kowalski.

Roca's attention was split for a second between what was happening by the wall and the two men he held prisoner. His gun went off, creasing Kowalski's uniform as he lunged to the right, out of the way.

The door of the hut was flung open and Jorge charged in, machine gun ready.

Nelson swung and fired the AK-47, missing the soldier by a fraction of an inch. The man yelped and dropped his gun, putting his hands over his head and dropping to his knees.

Roca sighted on Nelson, but was hit from one side by Kowalski. They went down in a heap of squirming arms and legs, both fighting to get a good grip. The pistol went flying into one corner of the hut.

Chip used the manacles to good use, hitting Largo under the chin, snapping the man's head up. The guard crumpled, unconscious.

Chip swiveled and swung both handcuffed arms against the neck of the guard who was kicking the woman holding his knees, trying to drag him down into the embers of the small fire. The guard grabbed him and pulled, both men tripping over the woman. Chip used the manacles to bash the guard's temple and the man collapsed. Fumbling at the guard's waist, he got the handcuff keys and unlocked his wrists.

Kowalski finally got a grip on Roca. The man was sprawled beneath him, his arms held over his head, when unexpectedly Kowalski was hit with the tip of a thick leather boot in the middle of his back. Stunned, he loosened his hands and Roca rolled over, grabbed Kowalski's right arm and twisted it up behind him, using him as a protective shield.

"Admiral, shoot him!" Kowalski croaked.

"Let him go, Roca! You can't escape now!" Nelson commanded, aiming the rifle at the Major.

Kowalski heard Roca laugh in his right ear as they backed out the open door.

Morton watched alertly, the nurse beside him checking on the two unconscious guards. Kowalski saw him sneak a glance at the pistol four feet away but the officer didn't move towards it,

Outside the hut, Roca gave one savage twist of Kowalski's arm, shoving him back through the doorway. The Argentine hit the oil lamp hanging next to the door and it shattered against the wooden walls, flames catching the dry wood and burning furiously. Inside, Nelson bellowed, "Get out of here! "  
The Argentineans facing the Admiral was the first out, and disappeared into the darkness as Nelson grabbed Sister Cornell and shoved her outside, following with his machine gun held ready. Kowalski and Morton grabbed both unconscious guards and began dragging them towards the doorway.

Outside it was clear and cold, the woman instantly beginning to shiver despite the heavy parka.

"Sir! " Sharkey appeared out of the darkness, Patterson on his heels.

"Help Mister Morton and Kowalski," the Admiral snapped. He turned to the woman solicitously. "Are you all right?"

She smiled gaily as she took a deep breath. "I will be now. Are you Jamieson's Admiral!"

That was an unusual question. Nelson had always considered Jamieson his doctor. "Yes, I suppose I am. Harriman Nelson, SSRN _Seaview_. You're..."

"Sister Patricia Cornell of King George Hospital in Port Stanley. Thank you for saving us all, Admiral. " Her voice ended on a shaky note as she brushed her long blond hair back from her dirty face.

Chip and Sharkey carried an unconscious guard out of the burning building, Kowalski and Patterson dragging the other unconscious man.

Nelson's face lit up when he saw Morton grinning at him. "You're looking very healthy, Mister Morton."

"Yes, sir! " Chip saluted him exuberantly. "Ready for duty. "

"I hope so. We've still got a long way to go --

The nurse screamed, throwing up her arm and pointing up the hillside

Jorge's pistol was aimed at the company, the muzzle's sweep able to kill any of them before anyone else could move.

Kowalski growled in his throat and tensed to leap despite the fact that he was the farthest from the soldier.

The loud crash of a gun split the icy air and the soldier cried as he fell forward, the cloth of his poncho and parka ripped by bird shot.

Kowalski lunged for the gun Jorge had dropped and grabbed it, swinging it around.

"Wait," said a calm voice from the darkness. "I'm on your side, laddie. "

"Who are you? " the Admiral called.

The)r heard the sound of footsteps. The man was a decade older than the Admiral, his heavy coat stained with oil and dirt. Thick corduroy trousers were tucked into heavy wading boots. A bandage peeked out from under his woolen cap, along with a few long strands of silver hair.

"Call off your man. My name's Markle. I farm this island. "

"Oh. " The Admiral eyed him suspiciously. "And you were just out tending your farm at midnight and decided to take your gun!"

"No," Markle said with a toothy grin. "I heard about your laddie and decided to see if I could do somethin' to help."

Laddie. Kowalski caught a startled look on Morton's face and a slight smirk on Patterson's that quickly smoothed over. The farmer's term for Mister Morton would be all over the ship an hour after they returned.

"Oh, really?" Nelson asked dryly. "And who did you hear this from?"

"A doctor in Port Stanley named --

"Jamieson," Sister Cornell, the Admiral and Chip said in unison.

"Who was worried that the laddie might be hurt," Markle finished.

"How is the doctor?" Cornell asked, a fraction of a second before Nelson spoke.

"Uh," Sharkey broke in hesitantly. "Begging the Admiral's pardon, but we gotta get out of here. That fire's going to bring the soldiers."

"They're already comin'," the farmer said calmly. "Great galloping boots on the way.”

"You'd better come with us, then, Mister Markle, " the Admiral ordered. " Back to the boat, everyone. "

"What about the prisoners, sir?" Kowalski asked.

“Leave them "

 

Captain Crane paced the control room, restlessly fiddling with the charts on the table, then walking to the radio shack and back impatiently waiting for some word from the shore party. _Seaview_ had submerged in one of the sheltered anchorages that made up the jagged coastline of West Falkland with only the antenna above the surface.

"Captain! " Sparks called unexpectedly, turning in his chair. He frowned as he listened to something over the headphones.

Crane was beside him in two seconds. "What is it?”

"I'm picking up a signal from one of the islands in the archipelago, sir. It's coded. "

"What the -- can you run it through the system, Sparks!"

"I'll try, sir. It might bring down the whole system. " The dark-haired radioman flicked several switches, and watched nervously as the lights in front of him flickered, If the radio went down again, the shore party was at risk.

Crane wondered nervously what was happening now. Who could be sending coded messages around here except --

"Captain, it's a British signal! " Sparks exclaimed. "I'm decoding it out. "

Lee read over his shoulder. "Oh, no, no. Not him. "

"Sir! " the radio officer looked up inquisitively.

Crane crumpled the slip. "We've got another problem now. The British have found us."

"Yes, sir. " Sparks kept a prudent silence as the Captain tossed the slip into the trash next to him.

"Sparks, send this message in the same code. _Seaview_ to Major Owen: we're awaiting shore party; come join us if you want. Crane. "

The radioman gave him a slightly disbelieving look. "Sir! "

"Send it. It'll give us some time while they argue over what they can do about _Seaview_. "

"Yes, sir. " Sparks began tapping in the message while Crane paced the control room, checking on all the stations, then returned to the radio shack.

"Sir, Major Owen acknowledges your invitation and says he will join us shortly," Sparks said with a flicker of apprehension.

Crane shrugged. So the Englishman had accepted his offer. Unforeseen but not a major problem. "Mister O'Brien, make preparations to surface when we have Major Owen's signal. "

"Major Owen! " O'Brien said blankly then caught the impatient look on Crane's face.

"Aye, aye, sir," he added hastily.

"Now we wait and see who comes first; the Major or the Admiral," Crane muttered walking out of the radio shack.

 

Owen's signal was cut off as _Seaview_ surfaced close to his small Gemini raft.

Despite his personal feelings Crane greeted the Royal Marine politely. Owen looked murderous, the Captain noticed immediately. He wore a green-splotched arctic smock over a shirt, a dark green beret, black boots. Slung on his shoulder was a sniper rifle. His face was smudged green and brown so that no clear skin would reflect the moonlight outside. Only the small dull brass insignia in the wool of his cap gave his affiliation.

Crane hadn't realized that the Major was a member of the Royal Marine Commandos Special Boat Section and his respect for the man grew instantly. The British equivalent of Navy Seals, the SBS set the standards for most commandos worldwide. The UK must be involved in preliminary work for the invasion7 and Major Owen had a reason to be annoyed that Seaview was in these waters. They might compromise the Englishman's mission.

He exchanged salutes with the British officer.

"What are you doing here, Captain, and what shore party!" Owen asked without preliminaries.

"Come up to the nose, Major, and we'll discuss it," Crane replied with equal bluntness. He led the way with Owen right behind him.

The Major paused, seeing the eerie glow of the ocean through the glass windows. Lit by moonlight, the water had a translucent blue sheen which reflected into the observation area.

Crane pressed the button and the crash doors shut, isolating him and the Major.

"Admiral Nelson is leading a shore party that ought to net us Chip Morton and/or Doctor Jamieson," Crane said flatly, crossing his arms. "An Argentine Major made an offer to the Russians, who are also in these waters, to sell them an American officer. The Russians refused but we intercepted the offer and decided to run a scam. "

The man eyed him in patent disbelief, "I would never have thought it possible that the United States would try anything like this! " "Do you have any idea of the consequences -- "

"We know them all, Major," Crane cut him off. "The Admiral and I decided it was worth the risk. Our government has no involvement in this."

The Major ran his hand over his head, pulling off the cap. For the first time Owen looked just tired, not arrogant. "Then your men didn't get out of Port Stanley?"

"We haven't heard from them since I dropped them ashore," Crane said in a slightly more conciliatory tone. "We thought they might be dead until we intercepted the message. "

"I saw your doctor in Government House the day of the invasion," Owen said awkwardly.

"You saw him that day! Was he all right? "

"Uninjured. I spent a week fighting in the hills until someone betrayed us to the Argentines and my troop were taken captive " The Marine's lips thinned and he sent a frustrated glare out the windows. That galled the proud man, Crane thought, watching Owen's stance. He would have been the last man to put down his gun. "The Argentineans held us in a camp for a week then repatriated us along with a number of civilians. "

"But you're back," Crane prompted.

Owen looked at him, his lips slightly pursed. "The Fleet will be here shortly, Captain, and I know these islands as well as any man. "

"I thought SBS teams were made up of three-men. "

"In fact, the rest of my team is still on the way. I'm alone," Owen said reluctantly.

"The British are planning to attack if all diplomatic means fail, " Crane interpreted. "That's obvious from the radio messages we've intercepted, Major. We didn't know they -- you were planning this far ahead, though. "

Major Owen smiled for a fraction of a second. "The British Navy believes in Lord Baden-Powell's motto, Captain. "

" 'Be prepared'," Lee said with a grin. "I was a Boy Scout, too. " For a second the two men were completely in accord.

"Captain! " O'Brien stepped into the room. "We have the signal from the Admiral. They're coming back. "

Crane hit the button opening the crash doors. "Surface the boat, Mister O'Brien! Get the deck party ready."

"Aye, aye, sir! "

 

 _Seaview_ rose slowly through the water until she rested on the surface. Crane paced to the sail ladder, muttering, "Come on, come on. " Major Owen followed, stopping by the periscope island.

The hatch creaked, there was the sound of voices and laughing, and feet began descending the metal rungs.

The first man down was the Admiral, who grinned broadly at Crane as he stepped back from the ladder. The Captain's spirits soared.

The next person wore a skirt and a dingy torn parka. Crane stepped forward automatically to help the woman down the last few rungs and she smiled up at him through her wind-blown hair. Her smile was infectious and the Captain returned it, though his eyes were quizzical.

"Lee, let me introduce Sister Patricia CornelI of the King George Hospital in Port Stanley," the Admiral said.

"Ma'am," Crane acknowledged as she stepped beside Nelson.

“I’m happy to meet you, Captain," the nurse replied happily. "Mister Markle's coming down next. “

Crane saw the old man was reasonably spry despite the wading boots as he climbed down the ladder. He stepped away once he landed, his gaze taking in the crew and cabin in one sweeping glance, and pausing when he saw Major Owen.

The next man was slender, blond, dressed in a filthy tan coverall and dark green sweater that gave off the odor of a smoky bar.

Chip paused halfway down, and grinned at him. "Permission to come aboard, sir?"

Lee grinned, relief shining from his eyes. "Granted! Get down here, Mister Morton!" Crane ordered with a laugh.

The control room filled with applause as crewmen turned to see the Exec.  
  
Chip gave them one startled look, and his face filled with pleasure at the reaction. He eyed Lee, who shook his head in dismay.

"Out of uniform and unshaven as well! " Crane said mockingly. "I should put you on report. "

"Just give me five minutes and a shower, and I'll be as good as new... sir! " Morton retorted.

Crane threw back his head and laughed as he pounded Morton on the back. "Glad to see you. "

"Captain Crane!" Nelson called, his gaze shifting from Crane to Major Owen, who was leaning on the metal railing of the periscope island, eyeing the scene with an amused expression. "We have a guest?"

"Why, Major Owen! " Sister Cornell greeted him with a broad smile. "How nice to see you again. "

"Sister Cornell," the Major said, nodding his head politely, his gaze going from man to man.

"Admiral Nelson, let me introduce you to Major Reginald Owen of the Royal Marine Commandoes. He wants to know our future plans," Crane said, his tone carrying a warning. "Chip, you'd better move before Sharkey lands on you."

Sharkey, Patterson and Kowalski came down the ladder, all wearing triumphant grins. When they saw Owen, they eyed him with sudden caution, Kowalski's eyes narrowing at the sniper rifle slung over the Major's shoulder.

"Let's get out of these waters, Lee," Nelson ordered. "Sister Cornell, if you follow Chief Sharkey, I'm sure we can find you a place to shower and we'll get you some new clothes as well.

"Thank you, Admiral," the woman said with dignity, her dirty palms pressing on her skirt,

Crane looked around. "Where's Doc? "

The newcomers looked from one to the other. "We'll have to discuss that, Captain " Nelson finally said. "Let's get under way. "

"Aye, aye, sir, " Crane said automatically, his pleasure dimmed. "Mister O'Brien! "

"Yes, sir! "

"Don't go too far, laddie," the farmer said emphatically. "I still have to get home. There's a maze of islands around here to hide this boat in. "

"Take _Seaview_ into the archipelago "

 

 

A half-hour later Crane looked up from the chart table as Chip came down the spiral staircase. He now wore an immaculate uniform and, sans beard and dirt, his overly-long hair combed back, looked very much like the Chip Morton Lee had met at Annapolis nearly twenty years ago.

"We're meeting in the nose?" Morton asked, coming over and automatically checking the chart.

"Yes, the Admiral will be here any minute. He's escorting Sister Cornell. How did you end up with a nurse, Chip?" Crane put down the clipboard he had just finished initialing.

Markle and Major Owen were seated at the table in the observation nose, discussing something involving the Falklands map the Admiral got in Antarctica. The farmer had his jacket off, the worn woolen jersey the same color as the green beret. They almost looked like relatives. Occasionally they'd looked at Crane, but he received the impression that it was a private conversation.

Morton shook his head. "She walked in when Roca was dragging me off, and got kidnapped. I don't know what the hell he had in mind for her. How'd you end up with a British commando?"

"He dropped in on us," Crane said dryly. "Shall we join them?"

Morton caught his sleeve, stopping him. "Lee, Jamieson was wounded and from what Sister Cornell says, he's not doing real well. "

"What?" Lee's head went round sharply as he stared at Chip. "How badly is he hurt?”

"She says it was bad enough to land him in a bed. l haven't seen him since Roca took over the hospital. It's been a week since Sister Cornell saw Jamieson, and God knows what shape he's in now. "

Crane's lips were firmly pressed together as he glanced down at the map then up at Morton. "As far as we know he hasn't been shipped out with the British prisoners. In fact, if it hadn't been for Roca's sales pitch we wouldn't have known you were still alive."

"Roca was a good salesman. What are we going to do about Jamieson!?" Chip asked, leaning on the chart table.

"Have you told the Admiral this? "

"Not yet. I haven't had time. "

“Then we'll tell him at the meeting. Here he comes,” Crane said, looking down the control room as the Admiral and Sister Cornell entered by way of the aft hatch. ”By the way, Sharkey says your nurse is settling in nicely in Sick Bay. She approves of the set-up.”

“Sister Cornell is one hell of a lady,” Chip commented, watching the Admiral and nurse, now wearing a uniform shirt probably borrowed from someone on board and her own skirt, brushed so that the stains didn’t show. ”She never lost her nerve even though we didn’t know what Roca had in mind for her.”

Crane glanced at him. ”We never know what this Major Roca of yours has in mind.”

“Hey, he’s not mine!” Morton protested. ”I’ll leave him for the British to deal with.”

“Gentlemen, would you like to join us?” the Admiral called, ushering Sister Cornell past the two men into the observation nose. She smiled at Chip, taking in his groomed appearance with an amused smile, then walked over to the table where the kettle sat.

Chip arrived a fraction of a second before her and picked up a cup. ”May I get you some coffee, Sister Cornell! Or tea? I see our cook knows you're aboard," he added, seeing a tea bag next to the creamer.

“Thank you, that would be very nice.” She sat primly in the chair the Admiral pulled out and accepted the cup Morton held out.

“We aim to please, Ma'am," he said, smoothly picking up a cup and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Nelson pressed the button on the chart table and the crash doors slid closed, shutting out the curious control room crew and Mister O'Brien.

“Now, let's discuss what's happened," he said, filling his cup with hot black coffee.

“What has happened, sir!” Chip interrupted. ”I have no idea of what's been going on.”

“The UK and Argentina are at war even though nothing's been officially declared and diplomatic measures are coming apart as we speak. The United States has taken no sides yet," Crane explained, sitting down in a chair. ”The British fleet may be here in a couple of days and then, who knows? I think Major Owen could tell us more about that."

“What happens then will be up to Whitehall," Owen replied in a restrained tone.

“So there will be an invasion. Maybe Major Roca will be removed from the picture,"

Sister Cornell said unexpectedly. ”I rather hope permanently.”

“Rather bloodthirsty, Sister," Chip retorted as both Crane and the Admiral sat in startled silence. ”I think he's more like a cockroach. He'll crawl out of any pile you bury him in.”

She sniffed disdainfully. ”More like a flea."

“I made a point of checking on Major Roca when I got back into British hands," Owen said unexpectedly. ”His file says he was a death squad officer back in Argentina. Our intelligence says that he is an embarrassment to the Junta and was probably sent to the Falklands in the hope that he might be killed in the fighting."

The Admiral nodded. ”Yes, and the Argentines are apparently annoyed that we've asked about him. I sense that he might be outliving his usefulness, even with them.”

“Which makes him even more dangerous,” Chip said soberly. ”He'll have nothing to restrain him.”

Crane tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. ”He's got the training to be lethal and the temperament that says life is cheap,”

“Roca's a war criminal by any name and deserves to be shot," Owen said flatly.

“Then Doc's in more danger right now than before," Chip said with a frown. ”Roca's got no reason to keep him alive.”

“Or to kill him," Nelson retorted.

"On the contrary, " Crane said reluctantly. "He's got every reason to kill Doc before word leaks out. I have a feeling Roca’s sale of Chip was his own private enterprise. His superiors wouldn’t like it if they knew it. The US government could make a stink if it wanted to about an Argentine officer selling one of ours to the Russians. It might be a good enough excuse, to their mind, for us to throw our weight to the British. But if Roca can clean up an loose ends, and Doc is the biggest, he can tell his superiors that we're just full of it. There were never any Americans on the Falklands, or that they were shipped out early on and he has no idea of what happened to them.”

“Roca told your doctor, who told me, that ‘no one’ had asked about him,” Markle interrupted. “As far as Doctor Jamieson knows the United States has no record of his existence on the Falkland Islands.”

The Admiral grimaced. “I sent several messages trying to find where my officers were! I was assured that a Colonel Quadros was in charge of finding out the truth. “

"The messages didn't reach the Falklands or Roca intercepted them, " Owen concluded. "I wouldn't put it past him.”

“If Doc vanishes, the US can file an official claim, but the truth won’t come out any time this decade,” Crane said pessimistically. “If the British win the islands back, we might find – “

"We'll find a body," Morton said flatly. "Doc with a bullet in the back of his head. Or dead some other way. "

That statement hit everyone in the observation nose with the strength of a bludgeon, killing the conversation.

"Gentlemen,” Markle broke the silence, “Come down to earth. There must be a way to retrieve your doctor.”

"I wonder?" Crane mused, looking out the windows for a second.

"What, Lee?" Nelson asked.

"We know Roca's greedy. Chip was worth twenty thousand American dollars. How much would he sell Doc Jamieson to us for?

The company was floored by the question. Morton looked from face to face seeing comprehension and a grim delight coming over the Admiral, while Owen and Markle just looked stunned. Sister Cornell nodded in agreement at the concept.

Markle glanced at Nelson, his weathered lips curling back in a gleeful smile. "Well, now. That sounds like my job, doesn't it? "

"There is no saying what Roca will do," Crane warned.

"I doubt that he will scare Regimental Sergeant-Major Markle," Owen commented dryly.

Nelson flicked his glance from Owen to Markle. "Regimental-Sergeant Major?"

"Retired years ago, " the farmer said peaceably. "Royal Engineers. I don't use the rank on anyone but the sheep now. It might be worth the risk to twist Argies' noses a bit, " Markle acknowledged, his eyes twinkling.

"You're a risk taker, Mister Markle, " Nelson said approvingly. "It'll rake Major Roca at least half a day to get back to Port Stanley. Doc's safe unless the Major radios his orders back to his men. "

"I would guess," Sister Cornell put in, "that Major Roca is acting on his own authority, so he would go back to Port Stanley and do the deed himself. Whatever that is.”

“If you keep the negotiations going long enough, your man may be alive by the time we invade,” Owen said unexpectedly. “Then you won’t have to spend an American nickel for him. But you didn’t hear that from me, of course.”

"I've got a load of lamb to take to Port Stanley in a couple of hours,” Markle said with a grin. “I’ll just drop by the hospital and tell your doctor that the lad’s all right, then go see Major Roca."

Crane saw how Chip flinched when the man said 'lad'. The exec would kill anyone who tried to use it later, he surmised. Pity.

"And how do we get in touch with you?" Nelson asked. "If Roca rises to the bait."

"I've got an old wireless. I'll just --

"We'll lend you a radio," Crane interrupted. "One that works."

"And have him caught with illegal American gear!" Sister Cornell said pointedly. "I don't think that's a good idea, Captain."

The grizzled man grinned toothily. "The sister has a good point or I'd take you up on that -- mine's pre-War. Can you drop me off near my farm?"

"Technically, we should be outside the two hundred mile limit," the Admiral murmured. "Right now we're compromising everyone."

"Completely true, Admiral," Owen replied, "even if you realize it a little late at this point.”

"It would be convenient if you could inform your fleet that we're here and not to bomb us," Nelson replied sharply. "I'd hate to be sunk by my allies."

Markle laughed. "Your boat can hide in these islands for a good long time, Admiral. You can see that by the naval histories you have sitting right over there! " He pointed to several books that the Nelson had brought from his cabin that dealt with the Falkland Islands wars of the early twentieth century.

The Admiral grinned. "So, shall we try this plan? It buys us time. If you're still willing to go along with this, Mister Markle, I think we'd better get you ashore."

"What about me?" Sister Cornell asked unexpectedly.

Nonplussed, the men looked from one to the other.

"You can't go back until the invasion," Owen stated flatly. "The Argentines would ask questions we don't want answered."

"There should be a hospital ship with the fleet, but since they aren't here yet, I suppose you must stay on _Seaview,_ " Nelson concluded.

The Sister looked at Chip, who smiled encouragingly. "Let me warn you, I get seasick," she said dryly.

"I'm sure Doc has something that will handle that," Chip laughed, then caught himself.

The mention of Jamieson sobered the company.

"Then let's send Mister Markle ashore with our offer, and wait to hear from him," Nelson concluded.

"I'll take you in, Markle," Owen said unexpectedly. "In my Gemini.”


	11. April 19, 1

Jamieson slumped against the wall of his bedroom with his eyes shut. His knee felt like it was on fire and he had only been on duty for four hours before Dr. Daniel told him to go back to his room. The noon meal would be served shortly in the communal cafeteria.

The sound of scuffing boots and loud voices roused him from his exhausted daze, and he sat up, opening his yes.

Major Roca, wearing a mud-splattered parka and boots, accompanied by two soldiers, stood in front of him. “Doctor Jamieson, you will come with us,” the Major ordered.

"Why? " Jamieson asked standing painfully.

"There have been injuries. We need your expertise. "

Adrenalin cleared Jamieson's mind in a flash. Injuries? "Soldiers, civilians, or Morton?"

“Civilians,” the Major replied, ignoring the doctor's question about Chip. "We have a mobile hospital set up for you to use.”

Jamieson looked at him suspiciously. "Why don't you take any of the Argentinean doctors?”

"We have. Now we need you." The man's tone left no room for compromise.

“I’m not really in shape to move much," the doctor commented as he pulled himself up. He pulled on his battered coat, slid on black gloves, and settled his hat firmly on his head, then picked up a crutch one of the nurses had given him, putting it under one arm. “It would be better if I stayed here.”

Roca didn't comment as he followed Jamieson, flanked by the two guards, into the hallway.

“Take him out the back,” the Major ordered one guard in Spanish. “Largo, you get all his things.”

The guard on the right nodded and gripping Jamieson’s arm, pulled him toward the back staircase. The other soldier disappeared back into the hospital room.

Jamieson looked around puzzled. “Why are we going this way?”

“Silencio, doctor,” Roca said in a quiet and firm tone. “You’ll disturb the patients.” He tapped the butt of his revolver and stared him in the eye.

Jamieson realized that this entire thing was a ruse to get him out of the hospital quietly. He could make a fuss and get shot, of course, but… He limped between the guards, considering his options.

The Land Rover was next to the back door. He and the guard went around one side, Jamieson moving as slowly as he could in the hope that someone would spot him, while the Major went the other way.

Jamieson slid uncomfortably into the back with the guard while Roca sat in front. The doctor felt something hard nudge him and saw the muzzle of a gun in his ribs.

"So I'm being kidnapped," he said out loud.

“Quiet. Or I’ll kill you now,” Roca replied in a low ominous tone.

The doctor shut his mouth and looked straight ahead as the other guard, carrying Jamieson’s duffle bag which had been returned to him, came out of the hospital and tossed the bag in the trunk. Largo sat in the driver’s seat, piloting the Land Rover out of the alley.

Jamieson felt a chill go through him and it wasn’t because of the icy rain pelting the Rover's windows. Roca appeared to be making sure that no trace of the doctor stayed at the hospital and that made him afraid for his immediate future.

They must have driven over most of the inhabited roads on the island before Largo drove the Land Rover up in front of a bombed-out farmhouse with a decayed thatch roof and gaping windows whose glass was long broken.

Largo didn't bother to let Jamieson get the crutch as he dragged him out of the Land Rover and down the stairs of the house into the root cellar.

Jamieson stopped abruptly, was yanked forward and he fell, his knee giving out. The soldier dragged him to a corner next to an old rusty pipe set in one corner, and fastened handcuffs to the doctor's wrist, threading the steel around the pipe and fastening the other wrist. The other soldier dropped the duffle bag beside the imprisoned man and headed for the stairs.

Jamieson, still in shock, sat there for a second, his hat knocked ajar by the roughness.

Only a little light filtered in through the small window set high in the whitewashed water-stained concrete walls. Mold spread a pattern over one wall, and he saw a small puddle in one corner of the room, a faint glaze of ice over the top. Upstairs, the wind howled through the wrecked building. Against the wall just out of reach of his legs was a box labeled 'Explosives' with a timer on top, wires running into the wooden box.

He wrenched his attention from the box and glanced at Roca. "Why are you going to kill me?"

The Major stared at him for a second, then took out a cigarette and lit it. "Too many people know about you. But now you have vanished. Maybe you escaped, Doctor, or maybe you went out with the last set of prisoners. Or maybe you insisted on staying and –“

Jamieson stared at him in disbelief. "And no one will know where I went. Is that what happened to Commander Morton?"

"He once threatened me about you," Roca said lightly blowing smoke from his cigarette. "He said you wouldn't become a casualty of war or forgotten. Now you'll become both."

"What did you do with him?" Jamieson asked, trying to sit up straight. The pipe cramped his attempt to get more comfortable and the hat was settling uncomfortably over one eye. "What do you plan to do with me?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," the doctor said baldly.

"The British will be here in the next couple of weeks. They will attack Port Stanley, bomb the airfield, probably inflict massive casualties. Burned bodies are unrecognizable,” Roca said.

"And one of them will be mine," Jamieson realized, the cold in his bones having nothing to do with the icy cellar.

"Yes," the Major agreed. “If the Americans press the matter, we will suggest they send one of their doctors down to examine the corpses. I'm sure they will recognize yours -- "

"By my dental records, if nothing else," Jamieson supplied queasily, feeling his stomach roll at the thought.

Roca nodded. "And take you home. A regrettable accident in time of war. The noble doctor trying to help the civilian population, caught in a bombing. He insisted on working with the people -- "

"Forensics have ways of telling how long people have been dead," the doctor said bluntly. "They'll trip you up, Major. Assuming you live through the bombing. "

"You won't be here to worry about it, Doctor," Roca concluded. "I have to wait until the bombing starts but you will probably be dead by then."

"What about these explosives?"

Roca's teeth glimmered briefly in the dim light. "Insurance. That is a radio controlled detonator. I can dispose of you at any time, Doctor Jamieson. You may end up asking me to.”

Jamieson suddenly felt weak. He really was at Roca's mercy now; before he might just have starved to death, but now if Roca felt a whim, the doctor would die without even knowing it was happening. It was the final thought that proved reassuring. Jamieson had seen too many men die slowly over the years and would prefer a fast end himself. Of course, Roca was planning to let him starve to death. He raised his head. "What did you do to Chip Morton? At least, let me know what you did to him?"

The Argentine hesitated as he turned. "He got far better than he deserved. Good bye, Doctor Jamieson."

Once Jamieson heard the Land Rover start up and drive away, he began to rattle the handcuffs, trying to get free. After five minutes he let himself sag against the cold metal. It wasn't any use. With one hand, he pulled up his collar tightly around his ears and settled his cap firmer on his head, then stretched out his long legs feeling the cold settle into an ache in the right knee. He'd never felt so forgotten in his life.

 

"Major Roca," Markle called as the Major strolled out of Government House. The icy drizzle had let up, though che clouds were heavy with the prospect of more rain. The Falklander stood beside his grimy van, his hands still stained with blood from the lamb carcasses he had unloaded down at the dock.

The officer paused, two soldiers standing a step behind him, their machine guns ready "Si?"

"Have a good trip this morning? " Markle asked casually.

The Major's gaze sharpened. "Que? "

"From West Falkland. Nice little bonfire there," the farmer said. "You ruined that old hut."

Roca raised his hand but Markle shook his head. "Would you be wanting the world to know about your little jaunt, Major? I've left a note explaining what happened in case you thought to shoot me. "

"I could have you shot," the Argentine said through tight lips. He raised a hand and one of the soldiers lowered his gun.

"And the Americans would tell the world exactly what happened to their officer," Markle retorted. "Wouldn't look good at this point, Major. Calm down. I've got an offer for you."

"What?"

"The Americans want Doctor Jamieson back. They're willing to pay for him. What do you want?"

The burly man considered for a second, before shaking his head. "I don't know what you are talking about."

“Right, mate. No idea. But Admiral Nelson wants you to know that if anything happens to his doctor, he will personally make sure there is nowhere on earth you can hide," Markle said with relish as he watched the Argentine turn slightly redder. "And the Americans have the abilities to find anyone."

“In a year, they'll have forgotten him," Roca said dismissively.

“Not this Admiral or this crew. And Morton will never forget you." Markle grinned as he leaned on the side of the van. "The Commander has a temper under that ice."

Roca took a step back intimidated, despite his bluster. "I will consider this offer. Where will I find you?"

“Me? I'll be over in hospital having my head looked at," Markle said airily.

The Major spun on his heel and headed for an enclosed Land Rover, the two soldiers following closely.

 

  
Markle parked beside the hospital. One of the greatest problems inflicted by the invasion was that now everyone had to drive on the right side of the road. Several times Markle had met up with personnel carriers who were driving on what was to him the wrong side of the road. Humming to himself, he went inside and looked around.

An Argentine doctor came out, wiping his hands. "Can I help you?" the man asked politely.

“I’m looking for Doctor Jamieson," Markle inquired "He's been looking after my head.

The man's face closed immediately. "He is out with the field hospitals."

"With his leg? You're joking!" the farmer asked sharply, sensing that the man was hiding something.

"Major Roca took him away several hours ago," the man said reluctantly, "In a car. "

Markle stepped back, his mind working frantically. Roca had done the unexpected and taken care of Jamieson already. That didn't mean the doctor was dead, of course, but where could he have been taken? He didn't believe for a second that the doctor was with a field hospital.

"Any idea of which way, mate!" he asked politely.

The doctor's attention had wandered to a soldier who came in the door holding out his frozen hands. "No. If you don't need help, please leave."

"Right you are," Markle mumbled and walked out to his van.

Driving around the corner to the back of the hospital, he parked the van and thought for a second.

Jamieson had only been gone for several hours, according to the doctor. Roca had been wearing clean clothing when Markle saw him so he had had time to change. Giving the officer a half hour to change clothes, that meant Roca must have hidden the doctor somewhere in a two-and-a-half to three-hour driving distance from Port Stanley. Markle grimaced. That took in a lot of the area around them.

Roca wouldn't have taken Jamieson anywhere that was inhabited. Many of the city's dwellers had fled to the countryside, moving in with other farmers, So... if Roca was hiding the doctor, he was in something that was a ruin.

 _So should he try and find Jamieson or wait and see if Roca would take the bait and sell the doctor to the Americans?_ The Falklander remembered the man's expression when he said he didn't know anything about Chip Morton and the fire. The Argentine had cut his losses. Markle suspected Roca wouldn't go back for the doctor even if he was worth a million bucks.

The farmer shifted the van into drive and drove out into a lightly-falling drizzle. The temperature was falling below freezing and the roads would soon be ice-coated. It was going to be a cold and hellish search.


	12. April 21, 1982

Sister Cornell sat down behind Doctor Jamieson's desk and began opening the drawers.

The long, shallow top drawer held pens and pencils, pins and random pieces of paper along with stamps and paper clips. Shutting it, she tried the first drawer on the side. Locked. Biting her lip she went back to the top drawer, rustling papers under the papers till she found a spare key, as she'd expected.

She inserted it in the lock and the first drawer sprang open.

There were several files inside, most of which she ignored after a cursory glance at their labels, so she closed the drawer and opened the second.

It was the deep third drawer that had what she was searching for. The over-stuffed file was full of penciled drafts and notes for Jamieson's paper.

She set it neatly on the top of the desk and looked for a typewriter.

"What are you up to?" Admiral Nelson asked unexpectedly from the doorway to Sick Bay.

Cornell smiled at him over the papers. "I need to be useful."

"You have been," Nelson retorted, coming inside and closing the door. "I hear you've been helping Parker and the corpsmen out."

"Yes," she agreed. "I do what I can. You have a wonderfully stocked medical office, Admiral."

"Thank you. It's Jamieson's pride and joy. But what are you doing, Sister Cornell?" He picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser on the top of the hand-written sheets.

She smoothed a corner of the page, her expression non-committal. "I'm sure that Commander Morton told you about the hut, Admiral."

"Yes."

"We had to burn Doctor Jamieson's paper to keep warm. I thought I might type him up another copy since I don't have anything else to do," Cornell explained, her gaze meeting his.

From his expression, the Admiral was startled by the suggestion. She wasn't sure what he had expected her to say but that wasn't it. "Re-type his paper?" 

"Why not?"

He sat down in the chair opposite her, eyeing her quizzically. "Why not, indeed. It would be a nice touch, if only you can read his handwriting."

The Sister laughed. "I've been a nurse for thirty years, Admiral Nelson. Doctor Jamieson has the most readable writing for a doctor that I have run across."

A flicker of a smile crossed the Admiral's face. "You liked him, didn't you, Sister?"

"Very much," she agreed. "And from what your officers have said about him, he's well-liked aboard as well."

Nelson chuckled. "He's saved most of their lives over the last few years, including mine.”

"When did you first meet him?" Cornell asked, folding her hands on the papers.

Feeling like he'd just been called in front of the principal, Nelson thought back to his first meeting with the ship's doctor. "It was in Korea in a POW camp. When I got there, Jamieson was trying to persuade the commandant that he needed more medicine to treat the new wounded. I was one of those wounded and I never forgot Doc. He made sure everyone who passed through his hands got the best care possible, and that was difficult."

"But that was... " she counted off on her fingers. "Thirty years ago or so, Admiral?"

"When I chose my own crew for _Seaview_ , I went looking for Jamieson." The Admiral grinned as he remembered. "He was working at the National Institutes of Health and thoroughly disgusted by the bureaucracy. He came aboard and nobody has ever regretted it. "

"I would think not," the woman said softly. "He is a very practical and competent general doctor. "

Nelson tapped his fingers on the desk and smiled slightly. "A good all-rounder, which is exactly what I need."

"But you're a doctor, yourself, aren't you?" she asked unexpectedly.

He raised his eyebrows. "Where did you hear that, Sister?"

She smiled. "I heard that from Doctor Jamieson who said you were an...'all-rounder'. He said you know more about blood research and general biology than virtually anyone alive.

Nelson reddened. "I'm a marine biologist and a few other things. I suppose you'd call me a dabbler," he muttered.

"From all the awards you've won? " she said sweetly. "Commander Morton told me some of that, Admiral Nelson. "

"People seem to have told you a great deal, Sister," the Admiral said sternly. "Loose lips sink ships."

She laughed, clapping her hands together. "Don't worry, our secrets are safe with me. "

"What secrets? " he asked warily.

"The fact that you care enough about all your men to take uncommon risks," she said insightfully. "It's a rare officer these days who will do that."

"I think you underestimate the armed forces," he replied. "Military officers don't abandon their men unless absolutely necessary."

"But your boat's not really Navy, is it?” she asked. "And I think you care a great deal more than you'd like to admit for Doctor Jamieson or Commander Morton. "

The man shifted uncomfortably. "I think that.... Would you like to have some tea, Sister?"

She reached over and patted his hand. "I would love it."

"Sister Cornell, I'd like you to tell me what happened at the hospital with Mister Morton and Major Roca," he asked after requesting the tea.

"I rather suspected that Commander Morton wasn't going to explain anything," she said wryly.

"His reports leave a certain amount out," Nelson agreed.

She stared at the desk for a second, then at the Admiral. "It was all very fast and discreet. I have to give Major Roca credit for that since I wouldn't have believed you could take two people out of the hospital without a fuss being made. "

"I believe the Major threatened you?" Nelson asked delicately.

Someone knocked on the door, then a seaman came in with a tray with a teapot and two cups, as well as a small dish of shortbread. "I can see that Cookie has your tastes well in mind," the Admiral commented, taking the tray. "Thank you, that's all. "

"Yes, sir," the seaman acknowledged and left, closing the door behind him.

“Major Roca threatened everyone," she said, soberly pouring tea into the cups. “I heard from one of the other doctors that part of the reason Commander Jamieson wasn't allowed upstairs to see Commander Morton was for fear that they might find out that Major Roca was blackmailing them with each other."

"Excuse me? "

She sipped her tea. "Major Roca used the threat of violence against Commander Jamieson on your Mister Morton to keep him off balance. Whether or not the Major would actually do anything to Commander Jamieson is the question, but Commander Morton wasn’t going to to take a chance and I wasn’t going to permit him to try and do something about the threat before he was physically able."

The Admiral stared at her in astonishment. "How did you keep him down?"

"It wasn't so hard in the beginning -- he was still very ill. It became clear that the only way he would be safe from the Major was to appear too ill to move. When that excuse ran out, well," she looked sad, "that was when Major Roca took us to the hut."

"Which leads me back to my initial question," Nelson said. "Major Roca threatened you?”

"I was just returning to my ward after telling Dr. Daniel about Commander Jamieson when Major Roca stopped me, asking me to check on one of his men who was in an ambulance at the back of the building. When we got there, the bus was empty except for a pock-faced guard who Roca called Largo. He held a gun on me while the Major went back inside. A few minutes later, he and another guard came out with Commander Morton who looked very angry, especially when he saw me in the ambulance. He and the guard climbed in with Largo and me, and then the ambulance set off. " She took a bite of the shortbread.

"And you were driven to the hut?" Nelson asked, sensing something was missing.

"Yes. I was very afraid that the Commander was going to try to fight his way out but when he saw Largo aiming his pistol directly at me, he put his arm around me and sat back. "

"He has a tendency to wait for just the right moment, then go into action," the Admiral murmured. "Patience is one of his greatest virtues."

"Indeed it is and thank God for that since I didn't want to get shot. It was a great comfort to have him there. Once we reached the hut, we were chained up to the walls. " Her smile was shaky around the edges. "He gave me the parka that Major Roca threw at him, and took this horrible overall and sweater, and just froze most of the nights. He looked like a vocational trainee!"

Nelson smiled at the thought. "A highly-trained one. I wonder what Major Roca told Doc to keep him away from Chip?"

"Well, you'll have to ask him when you get him back," she said briskly.

"Do you have any idea of what Major Roca had planned for you, Sister?" Nelson asked.

She shuddered. "I don't know. The only conclusion I have is that he was going to kill me."

The Admiral looked up sharply. "Kill."

"Well, he would have to, wouldn't he? I knew about Commander Morton and what Roca had planned, and I can’t imagine that he would let me go. I don't believe the Russians would be interested in a nurse."

"Or a doctor, or Roca would have taken Doc as well," Nelson said. "The only one worth money was Chip."

"Yes." She took another sip of the tea. "I had a great deal of time to think in that in the hut."

"And what conclusions have you come to, Sister?"

"Thank God for the Americans, " she said with a glint of humor. "And their stubborn sense of loyalty and friendship. "

The Admiral went red behind the ears. "Thank you. "

She offered the plate of cookies to him. "Have another shortbread, Admiral."

 

  
Markle spent the first night out of Stanley with a friend who told him where people had abandoned their farms within the radius he needed to search. The Sergeant-Major-turned-farmer had enjoyed the convivial night discussing the invasion and what it meant for the future, then drove away in the morning.

He hid his van in the first abandoned farmhouse he searched, and struck out overland to others. The four nearby were more accessible by foot than van, considering the rain had frozen into sheet ice. The houses were empty and there were no signs of recent occupancy.

By the time he returned to his van, he'd begun to feel the effects of hiking in his legs and thighs. Starting the engine, he drove to the next quadrant, and parked the van behind a clump of concealing bushes. He pulled the burlap bags he had in the back into a rough bed, ate from the supplies he bought in Port Stanley, and went to sleep.

By the time the sun was above the horizon, he was out hiking again. To Markle, it felt normal to be actively at war. Old habits died hard as he automatically scanned the landscape for any sign of life or danger.

Nothing. The world around him was empty, ice and snow covering most of the ground and the massive granite rocks which dominated the countryside. Not even a sheep nibbled the short grass, though the farmer knew that this was farmed land. He descended into the valley where a small one-story house with a wrecked thatch sat next behind a stone wall. A small dirt-beaten road wound up to the building, its potholes filled with ice.

Overhead he heard the roar of an airplane and he looked up, shielding his eyes. It was an Argentine transport flying into Port Stanley. More soldiers, probably.

Markle adjusted the worn collar of his parka and pulled his woolen cap down farther. Time was running out in this search so he knew he'd better get moving.

 _This one's a waste of time,_ he thought, climbing over the stone wall that surrounded the building. Wind whistled through the holed thatch and he startled a snow rabbit, who scampered down the road.

Reaching the front steps, Markle looked inside and shook his head. It would be dangerous to even try to search. The interior was mostly rubble with smashed tables and wind-drifts of fallen thatch. There was no upstairs any longer since the floors had been smashed in.

Turning around, he walked down the length of the porch wondering wryly why the owners had attached it. They couldn't want to sit out and watch the balmy sunsets over the Scotia Sea. Retracing his steps he stepped off the stairs and looked at his map.

A sound caught his ear. It was a clanging sound on the periphery of his hearing. He turned his head, pushing the woolen cap back. What was that sound?

His gaze fell on a cigarette stub against the first step. Picking it up, he found it damp, but not shredding in his fingers. Fresh. Someone had been here.

With a surge of hope, the Falklander walked up into the slight shelter of the house. "Hello?"

Again he heard a clanging and the sound of a voice. He looked around cautiously surveying the damage, then saw a dark hole off the side of the ruined kitchen. The root cellar maybe.

Markle cautiously approached the door, feeling the wood floor under his feet creak ominously.

The noise started up as he reached the top stair. The clanging was weaker but the hoarsely crying voice was familiar.

"Help! Is there anyone there? Help me!"

“Dr. Jamieson?” Markle called down.

The sound stopped immediately. “Who is it? Who’s out there? The doctor asked, hope edging his tone.

"Justin Markle. Hold on, Doctor." The farmer and went into the living room where some of the thatch strewn the floor. Finding a branch he   
returned to the cellar. He lit it with a match, giving himself a torch, and descended the staircase.

The bearded man chained to the drainpipe smiled weakly as the light filled the room.

"Marple? How the hell did you find me?"

Markle looked around, anger burning through him. It must have been a bitterly cold and wet couple of days for the doctor. "I went looking. How are you?" He propped the bundle of burning twigs against the wall and came over to Jamieson.

The doctor coughed harshly, his breath rattling in his chest. "Not very good, I’m afraid. I've caught a cold."

"From that sound, you've got more than a cold," Markle commented, his hands testing the handcuff chain. "I'll have to get something to break this, doctor."

"Anything," Jamieson said weakly.

Markle surveyed the flushed man. Despite the icy temperature in the dark cellar. Jamieson was shivering so hard that his body shook. He had to be running a fever.

"Let me see if I can get this pipe free," Markle suggested, standing up. He gave a tug at the pipe and a cascade of plaster and dust came down on both men.

“I'm not sure that's the right way to do it, Mister Markle," Jamieson choked out between gasps.

"Call me Justin," the farmer grunted. "Isn't there anything in this place that will snap that chain?" He looked around, his foot hitting the box of explosives. His eyes went wide as he knelt and read the writing, delicately moving the timer to one side.

"That's drastic," the doctor joshed weakly.

"Not a good idea," Markle conceded. "What the bloody hell did Roca have in mind, doctor?"

"He was going to wait for an attack and leave my corpse on the field. It'd be unrecognizable by then," Jamieson croaked.

Markle said sharply, "We might not attack for a month or two! You'd have starved."

"Yeah, I told him that." Jamieson leaned his head against the icy pipe. "Didn't seem to faze him."

The farmer muttered something and picked up Jamieson's duffle bag. "Anything in here that might help me, Doctor?"

"No...I don't bring a lot of heavy stuff with me when I fly. So what's your plan, Mister Markle?"

The fiery twigs crackled, sending sparks across the floor, and Markle carried the bundle across the floor away from the explosives. "I'll look upstairs for something to break that chain. Then we'll go out to my van which is a ways... No, I'll get you to shelter and go get the van. "

"This is shelter," Jamieson commented.

"With a bloody great bomb as well," Markle scoffed. "And a timer, which can be activated by remote control. I think I'd rather be outside than in. "

The doctor gave a quick grin, then shut his eyes for a second in sudden pain. "Right.”

Markle went to the kitchen looking for anything that might help him.

Among the built-in cabinets, Markle found debris and scraps of paper but no kind of a lever.

"Justin...! " Jamieson's shout was weak.

The farmer returned downstairs. "What is it, Doctor?"

Jamieson nodded at the burning thatch. "The wind's shifting. The sparks were headed this way... "

Markle realized uneasily that the doctor was correct. He ground out the sparks that had landed dangerously close to Jamieson's stretched legs. "We've got only one way to get you free, then," he said briskly. "Pray we don't bring the roof down. "

Jamieson shuddered and hunched his shoulders as Markle took a firm grip on the pipe's main joint and pulled.

Crash! More plaster cracked around them. The pipe had a definite list, the top end visible.

Markle took a deep breath and yanked hard.

Unexpectedly, the lower half of the pipe came free in his hands, the top end hanging from the plaster precariously, while the lower edge and joint ended just above Jamieson's handcuffs.

"It worked," the doctor said, his tone suddenly stronger. He scrambled onto his left knee, and lifted his stiff arms over the end. He was at least free of the pipe. Jamieson stood upright, his arms still handcuffed together and his right leg barely touching the ground as he leaned against the wall.

"We'd better get moving, " Markle suggested, seeing the top pipe swaying in the loose plaster. "Or we're going to have the whole roof on us. Can you walk, Doctor! " 

A fall of dust and wood cascaded onto them. The burning torch sent out a shower of sparks as a wind gust blew down the stairs.

"Give me a hand, and let's get out of here," Jamieson said shakily. "I'll go even if I have to crawl. "

Markle slid his arm under Jamieson's shoulder and they hobbled toward the stairs. "Do you want your bag, doctor!" he asked.

"Leave 'em. I'll get new stuff," Jamieson said through tightly compressed lips. His face was alternately flushed and pale and he leaned heavily on Markle.

Five minutes later, Markle let Jamieson slip off his shoulders in the protective lee of the stone wall that had surrounded the now-burning house. Looking around, he realized the injured man was completely hidden from the road, protected from all eyes, and the inclement weather which was now promising more rain. "Don't be wandering around, Doctor. "

Jamieson's smile was weak. "I'll hike...another time."The farmer looked at the farmhouse. He could see a trace of a rosy glow in one of the cellar windows. "I'll be back as soon as I can with the van."

"I'll be here," the doctor retorted, putting his left arm across his eyes while he rested his cheek against his right. The handcuffs stretched between his raw wrists.

Then, with an earsplitting crash, the farmhouse exploded in flames.

It was a few minutes before either man could hear anything beyond the ringing in his ears. Debris showed around them and they coughed at the acrid smoke.

Markle grimaced as he looked at the burning building. "That's torn it. "

"What?"

"We'll have to move out now, Doctor. Even the Argies aren't going to ignore that explosion." The farmer reached down to help Jamieson up.

The doctor acknowledged Markle's point with a nod, his lips set together firmly. The two men moved down the beaten track as the skies opened, soaking them in icy rain.

 

Major Roca stepped out of the Land Rover in front of the smoldering building.

Troopers were going through the burned timbers, gingerly trying to find a reason for the explosion. The rain had turned to hail after nightfall and everyone was wrapped in ponchos that made them look like giant bats. The headlights of the Land Rover shone like a beacon through the downpour.

His face didn't show any expression as he walked up to the sergeant in charge of the search.

"Find anything! " he challenged the young man who saluted him.

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said eagerly, "Come here, sir. " He lifted a burned bag of material that sat in the lee of a clumsily erected tent. Roca recognized Jamieson's duffle and his jaw muscles tightened. "A burned bag and some signs of plastic explosive. Someone was building a bomb here. One of those British who still don't understand that we control the Malvinas." He brandished a charred hat brim, the insignia melted into unrecognizable mass.

The Major looked at his eager face, then at the building. "No bodies, Sergeant?”

"No, sir. No bodies."

The Major nodded, waving him away as he continued staring at the building. Finally he moved back to the Rover, getting into the front seat beside his driver.

“Drive me back to Port Stanley, Largo,” Roca ordered. “By this morning, I want you to find who owns a van that delivers lamb to the docks. Find the owner for me.”

“Si.”


	13. April 22, 1982

Markle parked his van in a small valley roughly ten miles west of where the tiny town of Port San Carlos overlooked the northern edge of Falkland Sound. The valley ran to the ocean, ending in a steep cliff overlooking the ocean. He hid the small vehicle in the V of two massive rocks and hoped that no one could see it.

Markle grimaced as he looked around. The sun was coming up on another cold blustery day on the Falklands with no sign of relief from the winds sweeping across the islands.

Stepping out, he stretched his arms, then went around the back, opening the doors. "Doctor! Doctor Jamieson? "

The man finally stirred from his heavy sleep, opening his bleary eyes. He took a deep breath that sounded painful, then pushed himself upright. "Justin?" Jamieson had barely made it over the harsh ground to the van, and collapsed in the box-strewn back amid the burlap sacks that had held lamb carcasses.

Markle knew that the man was turning seriously ill. Even when he was asleep, the doctor had coughed heavily, and hiking in damp clothing through icy rain wasn't going to be good for his health either. Hopefully the warmer temperatures of the van had prevented any frostbite in his hands or feet.

"I'm going to take you to a hut, Doctor," the farmer said briskly. "It's right by a bay deep enough for your submarine to come right in. "

Jamieson stared at him, puzzled. “The...submarine."

Markle belated recalled that Jamieson had passed out before the farmer could tell him what happened. "Come on, Doctor. I'll tell you on the way to the hut. "

The path was rockier than Markle expected. They stumbled over ground nests, disturbing the blue-grey birds as skuas and sheathbills circled above them, scanning for dead nestlings. Bird remains littered the ground, preserved by the arctic temperatures. It was a grim journey made harder as Markle carried Jamieson since the doctor's leg was basically unusable. Jamieson coughed every few feet.

The farmer hadn't been down to the hut for several years, since the naturalists who'd run it had gone back to England when their funding ran out. It sat a quarter-mile down a path that wound dangerously down to a sheltered beach. On either side tall cliffs sheltered the path, the walls a refuge for birds like the blue-eyed shag who roosted on the harsh rock.

The weathered wooden building was still standing, though it looked held together by layers of salt spray and rusty nails. The rain increased as they walked the last few feet.

Jamieson barely able to hop for exhaustion.

Markle unwound the metal wire that held the door closed, and pushed it open.

Inside, it was dark, clean, and empty. A small stove sat against one wall, a couple of anonymous cans on the shelves above it. A table and chairs were neatly set next to the tiny window which let minimal light into the room. Markle carried the doctor to one of the chairs and steadied him as he sank onto the wooden seat.

The farmer walked over to the stove, picked up one of the anonymous cans and saw through an accumulation of dirt, 'Beans'. "Blast!"

“What?” Jamieson asked looking around.

“Nothing.” Markle took out a penknife and began to jimmy open the top of the can. “They’ve left you breakfast, Doctor.”

Jamieson skewed around in his chair. "What?"

“Beans. When was the last time you had beans?"

"The last night I was on _Seaview_ ," Jamieson replied with a wan smile. "I'm starving, Mister Markle."

"Been a couple of days since you had anything, hasn’t it, doctor?” Markle asked with a trace of sympathy. He put the can on the table and left Jamieson to out how to feed himself without cutting his fingers.

A survey of the building showed nothing further than what was already there. The naturalists had taken all their bedding and goods, leaving only what was built in or unwanted.

Markle returned to find Jamieson had eaten most of the beans and had his head pillowed on his handcuffed hands, fast asleep. He was snoring.

"Let's at least get you on the ground where you can’t roll off anything,” he muttered, putting his hands under the doctor's armpits. He gently slid the sleeping man on the floor and slipped off his poncho putting it on top of the doctor, then rolled up his woolen cap and put it under Jamieson's head.

"I'll just slip into San Carlos for some fuel, and come back," he whispered. "Call your Admiral. Sleep well."

 

 

Markle walked to the counter with the small pot of fuel and a flashlight in his hands. The young woman behind the counter rang up the purchases, and smiled as. she took the coins.

"Haven't seen you here for ages, Mister Markle, " she said brightly.

"Working the farm, Gladys, " he replied, putting the can in his jacket pocket. "And keeping a weather eye out. "

"Ah, yes, for more visitors, " Gladys commented, watching him shrewdly. She flicked a glance around the store, seeing no one within earshot though outside her glass window, Argentine troops milled in the muddy street. "They're looking for you, Sergeant-Major. "

Markle realized that he had just been thrown back on active service this time by his fellow islanders. So much for the farm. "Really? Why?"

"Not really sure. A soldier came in looking for you. Heard that they're hunting the van. You'd better be off before they come back," she whispered.

He looked ruefully out the window. "The street's jammed with them, Gladys. Can't get very far."

"Here." She slid a different woolen cap across the table to him along with a dull blue tarp. "They've got a description of that jacket and hat. This might give you a chance to get free."

He looked around, then took off his cap and put on the other . The blue tarp almost swaddled him in the folds, but it covered his jacket. "Many thanks, Gladys. What did the soldier look like?"

She shrugged. "They all look alike, Sergeant-Major. He didn't speak English very well."

"Well, then, I'd better be off," Markle said briskly. "Gladys, is it possible for you to call my daughter, Amy, and tell her I'll be back home tomorrow?"

"I'll try, sir. With all the restrictions I can't promise to get through," she said, watching the door open and another islander walk in, stamping mud off his boots. "Good luck.

 

Markle walked out into the crowds, keeping his head down and trying to look as innocent as possible. Clouds were starting to come in over the Scotia Sea, blocking out the sunlight that had been bright earlier in the day.

Walking among the Argentine troops, he was struck by the hungry, unhappy look of the soldiers. They had been forbidden to buy anything in the civilian stores and their uniforms were too thin for warmth in the face of the rising winds. Most were huddled in the lee of the buildings, laughing and joking, their ponchos spread to dry, with cigarettes in the gloved hands. For conquering heroes, they looked miserable.

He started off down the road that led out of Port San Carlos, shuffling his steps. One soldier driving a Land Rover pulled up beside him, offering him a ride from his gestures, but Markle turned him down with a grin and various nods. The soldier shrugged and drove off.

He reached the turnoff and looked around carefully to see if anyone was following him.

Nothing moved in fields around him illuminated the fading light of late afternoon. Heavy black storm clouds were moving in from the East and it was starting to snow. Markle looked over to where his van was hidden and then strided over the rocky ground heading for the hut.

Behind him, the pockmarked soldier hid behind a scrawny thorn bush, watching Markle leave. As soon as the man was almost out of sight, the soldier pulled out his walkie-talkie and pulled up the antenna. "Major Roca!"

"Si," came a bored voice.

"I know where the van is, and the owner. Here are the coordinates. "


	14. April 23, 1982

"It's almost time to give up, Admiral. Surely if Roca was going to sell us Doc, Markle would have been in touch before this," Crane said pessimistically as he wrote in the latest coordinates on the chart in front of him. "If our radio is working properly, of course! And there are several nodules of cobalt on this part of the seabed."

"I'll still put money on Markle, " Nelson replied dryly, making a note about the cobalt. "Besides, what would you suggest? An invasion of Port Stanley?" He had ordered a mineral survey as a way to keep the crew's mind off the waiting. He knew it was failing dismally.

Chip shook his head. "Doc might not even be there."

"Maybe Markle needs some help," Crane suggested. "I speak Spanish. I could take Kowalski, go ashore... "

Morton looked from one to the other in disbelief. "Admiral, you aren't really considering his suggestion? That island is crawling with Argentine troops. If we're caught -- "

"If I'm caught, I'll take the consequences! " Crane snapped.

Nelson eyed the Captain sympathetically. "He has a point there, Lee. "

Crane threw his hands up in disgust then caught his temper.

"Admiral! " Sparks called from the radio shack. "I've got a message from Mister Markle!"

Morton grinned. "Looks like we've finally got the radio working, Lee. "

" 'Bout time. " Crane threw down his pencil and led the rush to the radio shack as the rest of the crew looked around.

"What does he say?"

"'Come ashore. Markle.' It came from these coordinates. " Sparks handed it to the Captain who scanned the numbers and frowned.

Nelson took it out of his hand. "This is on East Falkland! We'll have to sail into the northern edge of Falkland Sound between East and West -- "

"Under the gun emplacements of the Argentines, " Chip added sourly.

"It's worth the risk, " Crane said flatly. "Besides, we told Markle that we'd deal with Roca if he made the contact. We can't back out now just because it's dangerous. "

The Admiral shot him an irritated look. "I have every intention of meeting Markle, Very well, Captain, you're leading the party and Kowalski will go with you. Markle says to meet him at twenty-two hundred hours at these coordinates. I'm going to land you earlier so you can scout out the position. "

"Are you going to take the Flying Sub?" Morton asked.

"I'd better not, just in case we're caught. That might bring even more than you, Mister Morton, " Crane grinned.

"You'd better get started, Lee, " Nelson advised.

"Yes, sir! Kowalski! " Crane walked over to where the rating was sitting at the sonar console. "Remember that thing you wanted to volunteer for?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You got it. Come on."

Kowalski handed over his headset to Patterson and followed his commanding officer eagerly.

Chip shook his head in disgust. "Admiral, this is wild. What if he's caught?"

“We all knew the risks when we came up with this idea. At least we'll know what's going on, " Nelson commented, looking at the paper in his hands. "Mister Morton, plot a course which will land Captain Crane on East Falkland near these coordinates. Tell Sparks that he'd better switch shifts with one of the others. I want the best man on the radio tonight when Crane has Roca's demands. "

"Aye, aye, sir!”

 

Jamieson was roused by a bright light burning through his eyelids. Feverish and dizzy, at first he couldn't imagine where he was or what happening, so he squinted as he opened his eyes. The icy wind blowing through the ripped deck coat was coming in through the swinging wooden door of the hut which had slipped its latch and was banging against the wall. The light was bright sunshine dazzling on the water in the distance. He closed his eyelids, turning his head slightly so that the light wasn't directly in them, and fell back asleep.

Something poked him below the collarbone. The doctor stiffened and opened an eye, expecting to see an armed man with a machine gun. From the shadows it was the middle of the afternoon. The sun had shifted position so it wasn't in his eyes any longer. Standing over him was a black-headed bird with spiky eyebrows, a white bib, short stubby black wings, and a sharp curved beak. It pulled inquisitively at the tarnished oak leaf on his collar, freeing it from the stud on the other side and waddling off to survey it.

"Oh, god. A penguin," he croaked, not moving.

The leaf fell into a crack and after a few pokes, the bird decided it wasn't worth the effort of extraction. It jumped on the chair that Markle had left pulled out from the table and with another hop, which Jamieson barely registered, it landed on the table top.

Some rustling, then a loud crash made him start as the mostly empty can of beans landed beside him, spilling its contents onto the wooden floor. The penguin, with a squawk, jumped down to land beside it, pecking at the beans.

Jamieson smiled as he watched the excited bird. It was fascinated with the can, which rolled every time the bird pecked it.

The room darkened as something blocked the doorway.

He looked up. An armed man was silhouetted in the doorway, a sniper rifle pointed directly at him. Jamieson felt tears well in his eyes from disappointment. So the Argentines had found him after all.

"Doctor Jamieson?" the man asked gently.

The doctor flushed in relief. "Major...Owen?"

The commando moved inside, booting the penguin out with an ungentle kick on the rear. It squawked. He caught the door and fastened it tightly.

In the dimmer light, Jamieson could see Owen more clearly. The man was painted to blend in with the rocky terrain outside, and his clothing was streaked with mud. He must have been around for several days.

"How do you feel, Doctor? " Owen asked gently kneeling down and putting the can upright.

Jamieson could feel the flush in his cheeks and the fever that made him shiver constantly. Incipient pneumonia, if not full-blown, probably gotten from that soldier he'd helped in the hospital and made worse by exposure. "Lousy, Major. Why are you here?"

The commando gave a flicker of a smile, "I picked up Sergeant-Major Markle's message. Came to check it out."

The doctor shook his head, trying to clear it. "Message. To _Seaview_ , right?"

Owen stared at him, seeing the effects of the sickness. "Yes.  Here."

The man pulled off his canteen and offered it. Jamieson took a small sip of the cold water, then a deeper one that went down the wrong windpipe. He began to cough, trying to catch his breath. The canteen slipped from his gloved fingers, jangled against the handcuffs and hit the wooden floor with a thud.

"Lie down, doctor," Owen ordered, giving him a slight push. "Your submarine should be here just after nightfall if they don't run afoul of the Argie coastal patrol.

Jamieson relaxed back. "That sounds like a dream. "

"This has been more like a nightmare for you," Owen rumbled vith a short laugh. "I have something might help. Take this. " He held out a large white pill.

"What is it! " Jamieson asked turning his head.

"Penicillin."

"Might help... a bit. " Jamieson washed it down with another mouthful of Owen's water.

"How's your leg doing, Doctor?" Owen asked unexpectedly.

The prone man stared at him for a second, then down at his legs. "It hurts like hell, Major. Too much hiking lately. "

The Marine laughed. "Get some rest. Help's on the way."

 

It was pitch-black night by the time Markle reached the hut. He prowled around carefully, making sure nobody was hidden in the rocks before coming back, lifting the latch and going inside.

He could hear snoring even before he flicked on the flashlight.

Kneeling by Jamieson, he saw the man looked less feverish than he had earlier. Markle put down the light, aiming it at the stove, and took out the fuel.

He froze, seeing the can next to Jamieson's hand. It was the same tin of beans he had opened, but it had been cleaned and the edges bent down so it was smooth and easy to drink from. Half-filled with water, it sat within easy reach of Jamieson's handcuffed hands.

Markle swiveled, flicking the torch around, looking around the hut for the intruder.

There was nothing in the corners except dust. He lit the fuel and put it in the stove, the flame catching immediately. The light flickered off the splintery wood walls.

Checking on Jamieson once more, Markle rose, turn off the flashlight and let his eyes adjust to the faint light of the stove. Then he walked outside latching the door behind him.

The storm's fury hit him with icy hail that stung his weathered skin and made him adjust the scarf protecting his face. He prowled down the path half-way to the bottom, seeing only the ghostly forms of penguins who were mostly sheltering from the storm, their heads kept down. Only fools, they seemed to say, went walking in a South Atlantic gale. Markle had to agree with them as he struggled up the path.

Voices made him crouch as a patrol came down the head of one of the bluffs. When lightning flashed over the sky, he saw their stark outlines, then the men turned away. He followed them a little bit, seeing them go around the beach, then Markle headed back to the hut.

Nobody outside. Whoever had been here must be a friend or Jamieson would be gone.

He heard rather than saw the tall man rise from the ground in front of him, machine gun held ready.

"Don't shoot me," Markle said raising his hands. "I'm just a farmer. "

"And I'm not here, Sergeant-Major," Crane replied, his words snatched by the high wind.

From the corner of his eye, Markle saw another man join the Captain. It was the young man who had been wearing a Russian uniform the last time the farmer had seen him, now dressed in fatigues and a parka, and holding a M-16 rifle ready to be used.

"Come inside," Markle cried above the wind. "I've got something for you. "

"Major Roca? " Crane questioned.

Markle stared at him, then realized the captain had no idea of what had happened in the last two days. "Better. Come on. "

The room was appreciatively warmer when Markle stepped inside, followed by Crane and Kowalski. He heard Crane draw his breath sharply at the sight of the sleeping man, then the tall captain moved quickly to Jamieson’s side.

Kowalski latched the door and took up a position beside it, his controlled expression failing to hide his shock as he looked at Jamieson.

"Doc! " Crane called softly.

Jamieson blinked sleepily, then squinted. "Captain Crane?"

It was a hoarse whisper, the product of a throat made raw with coughing.

Lee grinned through the layer of camouflage makeup covering most of his face. "Doc, I'm damned glad to see you. "

The doctor smiled and closed his eyes, slipping back into heavy slumber.

"How’d you get him free? " Crane questioned, looking at Markle.

"Didn't have to. Roca abandoned him in an old farmhouse and it took me two days to find out where he was," Markle explained.

"Abandoned?" Crane looked puzzled.

" Left him to die," the farmer said bluntly. "Of starvation. It's been a long haul for him, Captain, and he's not well."

"And now we have to get him down through the penguins," Crane said, looking back at Jamieson, his expression murderous. Markle thought Crane would have shot Roca without the slightest qualm at that moment. “We picked a helluva night for it, Mister Markle.”

"I didn't plan on a storm," the man retorted. "You'll have to carry him. His right leg’s almost useless.”

From his expression, Crane had forgotten that Jamieson's initial injury was torn cartilage in the knee.

" _Seaview_ 's just outside the bluffs," he said. "We couldn't bring her in closer, considering the weather. Our raft is pulled up on the beach, weighed down by stones. "

"Hope the penguins haven't punched a hole in it," Markle joked. "They are very curious.”

"Don't even think it," Crane said with a pained expression. "I have only a few patches. "

"It's a rotten night for a hike down that path," Markle warned.

"Then we'd better get started, Skipper," Kowalski said unexpectedly. " 'Cause this storm's not going to get any lighter. "

"Right, then," Markle agreed unexpectedly. "Who's the strongest man here?

"Kowalski," Crane said bluntly.

"Then give me his gun and let him carry the doctor. We'll need the top speed we can make. "

"All right," Crane agreed slowly. "Kowalski, give your gun to the Sergeant-Major. "

"Sir!" Kowalski looked doubtful in the light of the stove.

Thunder crashed directly over their heads, making everyone jump.

"Give him the gun and pick up Doc," the Captain ordered, pulling Jamieson's coat tighter. "Let's move out. "

Kowalski handed the machine gun to Markle and carefully picked up the doctor, slinging him in a fireman's carry over his brawny shoulders. From his expression, Markle concluded that the sick man was lighter than Kowalski had expected. The farmer picked up his woolen cap and slid it on Jamieson's head.

Markle took the point position since he knew the way and Crane brought up the rear as they descended the steep path to the beach.

 

 

Chip's head was glued to the periscope. _Seaview_ was submerged to ninety feet, which had the periscope up watching for Crane's signal. "Sir! I can see them! " Morton watched the small parade come down the steep rocky path that ended on the wide, crowded rookery.

"Who can you see?" Nelson asked edgy.

Chip stepped aside and let the Admiral at the periscope. "Four people, sir. The Captain, Markle, and – “

"Kowalski carrying someone." Nelson glanced at Chip, his face grimly set. "I think it's Doc."

Chip's eyes turned to blue glaciers. "What happened to trading him for money with Roca, I wonder? Do you think Jamieson's badly hurt?"

"We'll find out when they get here," Nelson replied grimly, looking back out the periscope. "They've almost reached the beach -- uh-oh."

"What? ” Morton snapped in frustration, forgetting that he was talking to his superior officer.

"Someone's in with the penguins. No, more than one, three people. And they're armed. Back against the cliff. " Nelson moved away from the periscope letting Chip back at lt

Morton peered through, then drew his breath in a hiss. "Roca. "

"Roca," Nelson agreed.

"What can we do, Admiral! They're so close --

The Admiral cut him off with a mischievous grin. "Get the laser ready."

 

Kowalski eased Jamieson onto the reddish sand of the rookery, careful not to put him on a roosting penguin. Despite the scarf, ice was forming in Jamieson's beard and his deck coat was coated with frozen pebbles from the sleet that pelted them all the way down. His ears and nose were turning white from the early stages of frostbite.

The crewman moved over to the rubber raft and helped Crane unload the rocks that kept it anchored against the wind. The slight raft bucked under his hands as he and Markle held it steady and Crane loaded the unconscious doctor in it.

Crane looked over at the farmer who was grinning at him through the sleet. "You're coming with us, Mister Markle."

"These are my islands, Captain, " Markle shouted in the wind. "And the Royal Army should be here soon — “

"They'll be a hell of a lot of use if Roca's shot you! " Crane rebutted. "At least let us drop you on West Falkland."

Markle smiled. "Don't worry about me, Captain -- “

A hail of machine gun bullets rattled above their heads and all three men looked around.

The intruders stepped out of the shadows of the cliff path, disturbing the penguins.

Squawks arose as the three soldiers walked carelessly through the flock.

Crane swore under his breath. "Who the hell is this?"

"Roca," Markle said, his voice level and cold.

Major Roca surveyed the four men. "So, here we are again, 'Captain Prokhorov', " he said to Kowalski, waving his machine gun. The sailor tensed. "And Doctor Jamieson as well. Who are you! " he asked Crane pointedly.

The Captain remained silent.

"It doesn't matter," the Major said abruptly. His finger tightened on the trigger of the machine gun.

There was a brilliant flash of lightning, then a flash from the sea hit the wall above the rookery. Crane saw the soldiers look around in horror as small shards of rock showered down from the cliff above them. The penguins squawked loudly and pushed past the Argentines towards the sea to take refuge in the icy waters.

"Que? " Roca said in shock.

" _Seaview_ ," Crane said in satisfaction. "You may kill us but they'll kill you before you move, Roca. It's a standoff."

Roca stared at him in disbelief. "A laser? But that's impossible!"

"Not for us," Crane replied. "Let us go, Roca, and we all come out alive!"

"No." Roca lifted the gun again to firing position.

Crane never heard the whine, but he saw Roca spin and collapse face down in the terra-cotta guano. The penguins he landed on squirmed out and pecked at the dead body, its head shattered by a single rifle shot.

"What the -- " Kowalski said looking around. In a flash of lightening he saw the crouched form of a sniper against the rock at the top of the path, his gun still aimed down at the company. Then the light was gone and after Kowalski blinked, he couldn't see anyone on the path.

Both the other soldiers looked at the body then threw down their guns, holding their hands up. After a second's uncertainty over what the men by the boat would do, the two soldiers bolted for the path, running up the steep icy slope in a total panic.

Markle studied the body, then looked at the top of the path. "We've got a friend up there."

"Sniper," Kowalski yelled, nodding his head toward the path. "I saw him."

"Think it's anyone we know!" Crane asked.

“Likely some commando chap," Markle grinned. "You'd better take off right now before this gets worse, Captain. The penguins are already heading for your raft. "

"What about you?"

"I'm staying. Get aboard," Markle replied in a tone that brooked no dispute.

Crane clambered aboard, then helped Kowalski. Markle shoved the raft out into the water as far as he could and watched as the two men started the small motor and piloted the raft through the turbulent sea.

 

 

Three sodden seamen grimly held the bucking rubber raft against the submarine's metal side. Crane clambered out, reaching down to drag Jamieson's unconscious body aboard as Kowalski held him up. Between them and Sharkey, they pulled the doctor through the access hatch into the warm, red-lighted shelter of the sail.

"I'll go down first, " Crane ordered as he stepped on the ladder. "Kowalski, get ready to hand him down.”

"Aye, aye sir," the rating acknowledged, watching the tall man climb down the ladder.

Below, Nelson was standing close enough to the ladder to get showered with icy hail and water from the Captain's soaked parka. He moved slightly back as Crane reached the last few rungs and jumped down to the deck.

"Better warn Parker, Admiral. Doc's going to need some major care, " Crane said soberly, holding up his arms as Kowalski and Sharkey carefully suspended Jamieson so that Crane could get a grip on the unconscious man, then let the body fall against his tall form.

Nelson moved instinctively, catching Jamieson as the man's body slumped against the Captain.

In three seconds, Crane saw the Admiral's face go to sheer unmitigated fury, then back to control. Jamieson's pallor made the doctor resemble a corpse dragged from the sea. The handcuffed hands hit Nelson in the face.

"Take him to Sick Bay, Lee," Nelson ordered harshly. "And get those cuffs off him!"

"Aye, aye, sir. Patterson! " Crane called and the rating moved swiftly to take Nelson's place holding Jamieson. His open face was shocked and angry. "Let's carry him down. "

“Yes, sir."

"Mister Morton! " Nelson swung around, startling the command crew who had been frozen in place. "Secure the deck detail and submerge. Follow the best route to outside the two-hundred-mile limit! "

"Aye, aye, sir! " Morton replied, letting the laser gun rise back into its storage position and, going to the microphone on the periscope island, tapped it twice. "Secure the detail and dive!"

 

Nurse Cornell stared aghast as Crane and Patterson carried the unconscious man inside. They laid him on the examination table as Cornell gently pushed Patterson and Crane towards the door. "Visiting hours are later, gentlemen. Leave this to me and the doctor's men."

"You'll call us if anything goes wrong?" Crane asked looking back.

"I'll keep you informed, Captain," she said pushing him out the door.

"I'll be sending the Chief in with some bolt cutters," he called as she closed the door.

Parker shook his head as he began unbuttoning the ice-caked bridge coat. "This is going to be messy, Sister. "

"Yes, early frostbite and who knows what else," the nurse said calmly as she helped him.

"Hmm, looks like his face, ears and hands got the worst of it," Parker commented clinically, looking down.

The nurse gently lifted one wrist, studying the chafed and ripped white skin. "He must have tried getting free. What on Earth happened out to him?"

"Have you ever seen this kind of thing before, ma'am?" Parker asked.

"Not the handcuffs, but the frostbite, yes. Every change of the garrison someone would come down with this kind of injury," Cornell said with self-assurance. "I think we will have to do a full body bath, Parker. Lukewarm water."

"That will bring up his body temperature as easily as possible," the corpsman agreed. "Dauber, run a bath of lukewarm water."

"Yes, sir, " the rating replied. He disappeared into the storage area to get the portable bath set up. The sound of running water started a minute later.

There was a knock on the door and Chief Sharkey came in with a pair of bolt cutters in his hands. He flinched as he looked at Jamieson. "Ma'am. Captain Crane ordered me to cut him free."

“Excellent,” Parker said looking up from where he was unlacing one of Jamieson’s shoes, gently pulling it off and tossing it in one corner, before starting on the other. “Then we can get his deck coat off without cutting it apart.”

“Frozen cloth is hard to cut,” Cornell commented as she watched the chief carefully slide the blades around the metal chain and snap the cutter shut. The thin metal broke. Parker lifted one of Jamieson’s hands and the chief gently slide the cutter between the cuff and the wrist. Two snaps and the handcuff slid off Jamieson's wrist, landing with a clatter on the metal decking. The other cuff followed seconds later.

The sleet had melted into the dark wool, soaking it with an icy chill while the dingy uniform underneath showed wear and tear. "Hold him up, Mister Parker. Gently."

"Yes, Ma'am! " the corpsman replied. The other corpsman helped her to pull the coat off, then the suit jacket and sweater. The saturated clothes joined the shoes in the corner heap.

Sharkey looked from the woman to the corpsmen and stepped back, his face a study in confusion and discomfort. "I'll be off then, Ma'am?"

"Very good, Chief. I'll have Mister Parker report to the Captain when we know something," she said calmly as she began to unbutton Jamieson's grungy, soaked shirt.

The Chief, dismissed, retreated outside the Sick Bay. "This isn't right," he murmured.

 

 

Back above the ocean's surface, the storm was raging, blowing sheets of sleet and snow that carpeted the entire island and pathway.

Out of the less-turbulent waters of the bay, the small Gemini raft motor inaudible among the howling wind. It ground ashore on the pebble-strewn rocky beach. By walking carefully over the roosting penguins, he reached the frozen body that lay face-down among the birds.

Kneeling, Owen turned the body over seeing the bullet-smashed face. He shoved aside a sheathbill that had been pecking at the corpse. The vulture-headed bird squawked angrily.

The commando dragged Roca's body down to the water's edge where ice was forming and put it in the raft, then went back up to the cliff base, looking for stones. Finding a number of heavy stones, he carried them back, putting them inside Roca's jacket.

Glancing around, he saw nothing but the storm and the sea. He pushed the raft into the icy water and started the motor. The tiny boat bucked as it slowly made its way to the middle of the bay.

Owen carefully balanced himself as he rolled the stone-laden body overboard. "Cheerio, Major."

He started up his motor and puttered around the headland into the turbulent waves of the Sound.

The man standing on the top of cliff, watching the proceedings as he smoked a cigarette, tossed away his butt and disappeared into the storm.

 

"Well?" the Admiral demanded as Sharkey came into the control room. Crane and Morton came over with a worried expressions.

"Sister Cornell and Parker's got it all under control, sir," the Chief said with false enthusiasm. "They're going to give him a bath."

"A bath. " Crane questioned puzzled.

"They said it was the fastest way to warm him up, sir, " Sharkey explained slightly embarrassed. "Sister Cornell was undressing...ah, Lieutenant Parker was undressing him when I left."

Nelson managed to smother his snicker. Sharkey was upset at the thought of Sister Cornell seeing Jamieson in the nude? "Well, she is a nurse, after all. "

"Believe me, she's seen a lot of sick men," Chip added, hiding a grin. "The ward was full of them after the attack. And most had frostbite."

"She's seen you undressed," Crane commented, his amused gaze on his friend.

Morton's ears went red as Nelson grinned. "That's true. Not much can surprise the sister," Chip said defensively. "We don't have anything to worry about with Doc. "

"Ah... yes, sir, " Sharkey agreed unconvincingly. "Nothing to worry about at all."

His expression didn't convince any of the officers who exchanged worried glances.

"lt just seems strange, sir, " he continued doggedly, "to have the Doc in his own Sick Bay. And he looks like -- "

"Thank you, Chief," Nelson said in gentle dismissal. The Chief retreated to the far end of the control room where he put on a headset and became engrossed in the plotting board.

Morton shook his head, "When you brought Jamieson aboard, Lee, I thought he was dead!"

"I thought he was when I saw him in the hut," Crane admitted. "Markle said Roca had abandoned Doc to die."

"And now Roca's dead," Chip muttered in a disgusted tone.

"Feeling vindictive, Mister Morton?" the Admiral inquired.

The officer dropped his gaze to the clipboard for a fraction of a second, then met the Admiral's eyes. "A bit, Sir. I told Roca I would personally sight a torpedo on him if he hurt Jamieson. "

"You missed your chance, thankfully," Lee said mildly, studying his friend. He knew Chip had a streak of loyalty but this was unlike the mild-mannered Exec. He hadn't realized how strongly Morton felt about Doc. Or was it pent-up frustration at the whole situation of the last couple of weeks. "I didn't want to be blown up by my own side. "

"We may yet have a chance to blow something up, Mister Morton," the Admiral commented dryly. "If our government chooses a side in this war.

Chip grinned unexpectedly taking Crane by surprised. “Yes, but it won’t be the same, Admiral. This was personal and I feel no pity for Roca, only for the penguins!”

"Yes, l suspect Roca's going to wreck the rookery," Nelson wryly. "But the ocean will take him out with the next tide if everyone's lucky. "

"What are you planning after we reach the limit, Admiral? " Crane asked.

Nelson held up a message. "Sparks gave me this just before you arrived. We have to go back to Palmer Ice Station as soon as possible." The Admiral frowned as he studied the piece of paper.

“What about using the Flying Sub, sir?" Chip questioned. "It could have you there --

"Let's try for a little discretion. Besides, all we need to do is fly into a tense situation and have _Seaview_ several days away," Nelson said harshly. "I want us down there as fast as possible!"

"It might be those Russian subs, sir," Crane suggested. "We still don't know what they were doing down here. "

"We'll find out shortly why Dr. Grant needs us. Mister Morton, set a course for the Antarctic, " Nelson ordered, balling up the piece of paper and tossing it in the trash.

"Aye, aye, sir," Chip acknowledged.

"I'll be in my office. Keep me informed on Doc, Lee. "

"Yes, sir."

Chip waited until the Admiral climbed the spiral staircase out of earshot to the upper level, then leaned over the chart table. "Lee, what I really want to how is how Roca knew so much about me. It was almost as if someone sent him a copy of my resume. "

Crane blinked, turning his attention to Morton's comment. "You think someone gave him the information?"

"Who would have it?" Morton asked, his eyes bright with anger, "Because that's the person I want to meet next. "

"Chip, it was probably given to Roca by the Argentine Secret Police," Crane argued. "I'm sure they have a file on you after that drinking bout. "

"They wouldn't have some of the details Roca threw at me, " Chip said flatly, leaning on the chart table. "If I hadn't been so salable, Doc and I would have been deported after I recovered. Hence he wouldn't be in his own Sick Bay with pneumonia and frostbite. "

"You're assuming you knew Roca's intent," Crane replied uneasily. "Who knows what led up to him offering you to the Russians? He could have been ordered to do it by other officers or on his own or on orders from the Argentine Government. We’re never going to know, Chip.”

“But it’s an intriguing question,” Morton concluded standing up, his face smoothing into his usual controlled expression. “What are you planning for Doc, Lee?”

"What?" Crane asked startled. Chip seldom circled back this way in conversations.

“He's too sick to move now, but later we could send him back to Santa Barbara on a Navy transport."

Crane grinned. "That's what he had planned for you! "

" "I wish I was there now, " Chip said with feeling. "But Doc's in a lot worse shape than I was.”

“I’ll discuss it with the Admiral,” Crane replied, marking on the chart. “Aren’t you off this watch?”

Morton checked his watch. “You’re right. See you later.”

“Get some sleep. And stay out of Sick Bay,” Crane called as Chip headed for the spiral ladder, “or Sister Cornell will have your head.”


	15. April 24, 1982

In the grey sunlight of midmorning Markle saw the back door of his van was slightly ajar. He had retreated to the hut the night before, using the slim heat of the stove to dry the seawater out of his pants and to keep himself warm during the storm.

A couple of hours after dawn he started for the van. Around him, sleet was piled in heaps of dull diamonds on the stony turf. In places, the wind had cleansed the earth so the granite-strewn soil was bare.

He opened the back door and froze. The pock-marked Argentine soldier who had been standing beside Major Roca on the beach sat in the back, his machine gun aimed directly at Markle's chest. The farmer realized his guardian angel had just abandoned him. He cautiously raised his hands and put them behind his head.

The soldier called something in Spanish. Markle heard the front door of the van open and shut and another soldier came around the side. Out of the corner of his eye, the farmer saw the other man come up behind him and felt the soldier start going through his parka's pockets. In the right hand pocket, the soldier found the keys and stepped back towards the cab.

The first soldier waved for Markle to climb inside the van and shut the door. The farmer obeyed, smelling the scent of long-worn fatigues mixed with the old burlap. The soldiers must have taken refuge in the van during the night.

Markle sat motionlessly as the van's engine started. The gamble was lost. Now he was going to be arrested at the very least and probably shot.

The driver carefully backed it out into the open light.

"Where are we going! " he finally asked as the van started over the rough ground.

The soldier smiled. "Port Stanley."

Markle felt a trickle of sweat go down his back. "Why?"

"Silencio.”

 

It took three hours before the van clattered up the potholed road of Port Stanley, finally pulling in behind Government House. The soldier waved for Markle to climb out, and followed him, the pistol aimed unwaveringly at the farmer's back. The other soldier came out of the cab and followed Markle and his escort inside. They marched down the hallway that still had bullet holes in the plaster and oil wrappings over the broken window to a small room in the rear of the building. Beside the door was a sign. Compania de Intelligencia 181.

The close-cropped dark-haired man seated behind the metal desk was a Colonel from his insignia. "Que?" he barked at the soldier who was holding the gun on the prisoner.

The soldier saluted, then came a flood of Spanish. Markle heard Roca's name several times, but concentrated on not responding until the man finished.

The Colonel looked from Markle to the soldier then replied in Spanish. The soldier stepped back, lowering his gun.

"This man says you were involved in the death of an Argentine Major, " the Colonel said unexpectedly in English. "You were under surveillance for subversive activities.”

“Me? I was just looking for my sheep,” Markle replied broadening his accent.

“Sheep.” The Colonel reached behind him and picked up a stack of paper clipped at the top. "You are one of the farmers, then. Your name. "

"Justin Markle."

"Markle, Markle...you have a farm on the other island with your daughter Amy. What were you doing near Port San Carlos!"

Markle hadn't realized they'd have a list of who lived where and what they did. He knew he stood on the edge of a cliff. "When the Reiders left, they asked me to check their farm out. I was tracking some of their sheep when this soldier kidnapped me!"

The Colonel smiled, his teeth unexpectedly white against his dark tan. "Sergeant Largo says you were helping the Royal Commandos."

“Commandos?” Markle desperately hoped that his tone was authentically surprised. He didn't want to drag Owen into this. "Are there any on the island...I didn’t get your name."

"Colonel Quadros. Mister Markle, that we will have to hold you here until we have proof one way or the other of Sergeant Largo's accusation. I hope you understand this. "

With a sinking feeling, Markle did understand. Largo would lead them to the rookery where Roca's body would be found. Then Quadros would know about Owen, and he, Markle, would be shot or deported. "I protest -- "

"lt won't be very long," Quadros said soothingly as he stood up. "At least I hope not.”

Markle reluctantly followed the Colonel to a small room with a recently installed lock on the door. Inside was a cot, two folded blankets, barred windows and a large chamber pot. Obviously a converted storage room. "Can l at least call my Amy? She'll be worried about me. "

"I will call her, Sergeant-Major Markle," Quadros assured him with an urbane smile. "I will have food sent and some of your English tea. " The door shut with a heavy thud and Markle heard the key turn.

He sat down on the edge of the cot and let his head rest on his hands. Who was this Quadros? How did he know Markle's rank and about Owen? What was in that report of Roca's and what in hell was he going to do?


	16. April 25, 1982

In the afternoon gloom, _Seaview_ sailed up Gerlache Sound amid strong treacherous currents. Despite climate control, the submarine seemed chillier than normal.

The Admiral sat in the observation nose, his chin resting on his folded hands as he thought about Grant's message. It had been out of character for the stocky American scientist, almost a touch of urgency in the terse request. hat could have happened in the two weeks since Nelson had left!

Lots of things, he acknowledged. War wasn't allowed by the Treaty in the area, but he was sure that tension had even penetrated down into the Antarctic area. Even without the war, there could be scientific problems or even medical. Someone could have gone crazy in the isolation. Nelson's lips twitched. He hoped it wasn't medical; Parker was perfectly competent but without initiative, and Jamieson was still unconscious, pneumonia holding him firmly in its grip. Frostbite had blistered the doctor's hands, face and feet, but Sister Cornell gave him a good chance of coming out with no major losses from tissue damage. She and Parker were keeping a close watch on the sick man.

Morton came up behind him. "Admiral, we're an hour from Palmer Base. We've tried reaching it by radio, but there's no answer. "

"Our radio's working properly? "

“Yes, sir. "

"What's the weather like?" the Admiral asked in a detached tone. His gaze was focused on the blackness outside the glass windows.

"High winds and it's snowing," Morton said reluctantly. "We can tie up to the pier –

"That's still under construction," Nelson commented. "Use the heavy-duty bumpers, Chip.”

"When will the pier be finished?"

"Should be done in a year or two," the Admiral said, settling back in his chair. "I wonder what's happening at Palmer. "

"Dr. Grant didn't give any indication in his message sir. "

"Nothing. " Nelson cocked his head. "Have you ever met Dr. Grant, Chip?"

"No, sir. I've only read a couple of articles by him on the Antarctic," Morton replied, putting down his clipboard. If the Admiral wanted to make small talk, Chip was willing.

"He's quite a man. Psychiatrist, marine scientist, manager. Two-term winterer in the Antarctic and still here for a third. He doesn't just panic. " Nelson fiddled with his pencil as he stared out the windows.

"We'll be there in an hour, sir," Morton repeated. "I suspect we'll find out what the problem is just after that.

"Right you are, Chip," the Admiral agreed. "Any word from Sister Cornell about Doc?"

"No, sir. She hasn't been out of Sick Bay for hours. We can ask Parker. "

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about something. Sit down,” Nelson ordered eying the young man. “You tense up when you talk about Jamieson. Why?”

Morton shifted uncomfortably, his gaze checking that everyone was at their stations and not close enough to hear the conversation. Finally he sat down. “Sir?”

"Yes. Don't play games me, Mister Morton,” the Admiral said lightly. “There was nothing you could do for Jamieson when you were a prisoner, or when you got freed. You know that.”

“Yes, sir,” Morton replied reservedly, his expression bland.

“So, tell me, Commander,” Nelson asked dryly, seeing Chip start at the title. “Why do you feel so guilty?

"Sir!"

"That's the only explanation I have," the Admiral commented tapping him on the arm with the pencil, "for your behavior."

Morton's composure became a shield that he retreated behind. "My behavior?"

"Yes, yes, don't run away, Mister Morton. I have seldom seen you so upset as when Doc cam back aboard and that kind of anger needs an outlet,” the Admiral said. “It’s the anger born of guilt but I can’t see where the guilt is coming from.”

"If I hadn't gotten sick, we wouldn't -- "

"According to the records, you probably got cholera from drinking in Buenos Ares when you were picking up the seamen," Nelson gotten a straight answer from his reserved officer. "So why do you feel guilty? You were doing your job. "

"Captain Crane got his free -- "

"Your methods were different and you paid for that drinking bout. Reading Doc's report about cholera is not one of the more pleasant tasks I’ve had in the last few weeks,” Nelson commented dryly. “And what happened in that hut was hardly a vacation for you or Sister Cornell. "

"No, sir," Chip said retreating into his shell.

"Major Roca's dead and Doc's alive, if not well. Try to dig yourself out of the pit of guilt over his condition, Mister Morton, because there is nothing we can do for him,” Nelson ordered, realizing that he’d get nothing more out of the officer. “Let’s find out what the problem is at Palmer. "

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Patterson raised his head. "Sir! "

"Yes?" Morton and Nelson walked over to the radar display.

"I've got a boat, sir. It's on the very edge of the range." The rating listened carefully, tuning his instruments.

"What is it?" Crane asked coming up unexpectedly.

Patterson handed him the headphones and the Captain listened carefully. "If we change course, Admiral, we might be able to catch up with it," Crane suggested.

"Why should we care?" Nelson asked. "These are international waters and anyone can come and go. "

Crane looked unconvinced by the logic as he handed back the headphones. "What if it's an Argentine vessel, sir?"

"We aren't at war with them or anyone," the Admiral commented. "Let it go. Dr Grant's request was urgent. "

"Captain! " Patterson said urgently. "I've got another boat, sir. Close by. It's drifting down the channel. "

Nelson frowned. "That's impossible... or unlikely. "

"Ninety feet, Mister Morton," Crane ordered. "Periscope depth."

"Aye, sir, " the officer acknowledged, relaying the order.

As soon as they reached the correct depth, the Admiral put up the periscope, scanning the surface.

The radar was correct. The small rubber raft was drifting aimlessly, its nose pointed towards the rocky shoals of Humble Island. It looked as if it been drifting for several hours in the icy drizzle from the ice crusted on the rope-hung sides.

"Think there's anyone aboard?" Chip asked, taking the Admiral's place at the periscope.

"We'd better check. The logo's Faraday, that's the British base, " Nelson said soberIy.

"British! Think the war's come down here as well, sir?" Chip questioned.

"The Antarctic Treaty forbids it but,.. let's see. " Nelson swiveled. “Mister Morton, take her up! "

"Yes, sir!" Chip relayed the orders and watched as Sharkey and the Admiral pulled on parkas.

The raft's only occupant was unconscious, entangled in a net, his face covered blood from a scrape on his forehead. Alex Foster wore a thin green parka with the hood up, thick wool pants and heavy snow boots. Sharkey came back, his parkers pockets filled with notebooks and loose papers.

It took several men to get the raft aboard. They carried Foster to Sick Bay.

Nelson riffled though the report sheets, seeing several different handwriting styles. "This is strange,” he murmured.

“Sir?” Chip asked.

“There are two sets of these papers here,” the Admiral explained. “but only Foster was on the boat.”

“Um, I found this too, sir,” Sharkey said unexpectedly, holding up a fragment of rope.

“Chief, it was wrapped around the hook at one of the raft. Like she was being towed and was cut free,” Sharkey suggested.

Nelson looked up. “Then someone must have cut the dinghy free. That gives us two men on the Faraday boat.”

“Two sets of papers,” Chip commented. “Who’s missing?”

The Chief asked simultaneously, “So what happened to the second man?”

“What happened to the boat that was towing the raft?” Crane added. “Foster couldn’t have come from Faraday in that raft.”

“Sparks, see if you can raise Faraday Ice Station,” Nelson called as he went into the radio shack and leaned on the radio, rustling through the papers again.

The dark-haired radio officer began flipping switches. “It’s acting up again, Admiral. I think…yes, SSNRN _Seaview_ to Faraday station. Come in, Faraday.”

A British voice came through after a minute. “This is Faraday.”

Nelson took the microphone and clicked it on. "Faraday, this is Admiral Nelson on _Seaview._ May I speak to Dr. Temple, please?”

After a pause, the Faraday operator replied uncertainly, “Admiral, Dr. Temple is out doing research with Mister Foster. He hasn’t returned yet. “

“What?” Crane said surprised.

“With Mister Foster?” Nelson replied. “Faraday, we’ve just found Alex Foster abandoned on a raft – “

“What! Admiral, have you spoken with Dr. Grant? " Faraday cut him off. “I recommended you call Palmer immediately."

Nelson exchanged puzzled glances with Crane, who was frowning in suspicion.

“What about Dr. Temple, Faraday?"

“Admiral, Dr. Grant is handling this. We have our orders. Faraday out. "

“Sparks, get them back! " Nelson ordered.

Sparks flicked several switches. "Admiral, they've broken it on their side; it's not the radio this time. " The Captain looked suspicious and the Admiral's expression was non-committal.

“Admiral, Sister Cornell would like to see you in Sick Bay," he said unexpectedly. “Mister Foster is awake."

“When you reach Grant, pipe the call through to Sick Bay, Sparks. Keep trying,” Nelson ordered. "Come along, Lee. "

 

Sister Cornell handed Foster a mug of tea. A white bandage sat on one temple, half-hidden in his light hair.

"I didn't know he was going to try and kill me," Foster said finally, his voice hoarse. "I finally unearthed the old records that gave the krill take opposite Humble Island where our base was before you Americans arrived. So, I went out with Temple to run pollution tests. Took a day to get up here in the _Broome_ with the weather being what it is.”

“That’s when Temple went crazy?” Cornell questioned gently, holding up her hand as the Admiral and Crane entered. They stood by the door not interrupting.

"I thought he was in the _Broome_ 's cabin when I started pulling up some cans," Foster said hesitantly. "But he hit me from behind. "

"You tried to stop him – “

"Bloody hell, I tried to but he tangled me up in a net, and hit me with the metal cans again! " Foster swore. "I remember falling into the raft but not that he cut me loose."

"When was this?" Nelson asked unexpectedly.

The young man looked up. His fair skin was reddened from exposure and his dark blue eyes were bloodshot. "The morning of the twenty-fourth. "

"Yesterday," Crane muttered.

"The same day we got a call from Dr. Grant," Nelson said, flicking a glance at the Captain.

"Think the war might have something to do with it?" Crane asked. "Does Dr. Temple have anyone on the Falklands or in the British Navy?"

Foster frowned, a slender finger tracing the NIMR logo on the coffee cup. "I don't think he knows anyone there. We've been keeping up on the BBC broadcasts about the war, of course."

There was rustling and a sigh from the sheltered alcove to one side.

“Doctor Jamieson's awake," the nurse murmured. "Alex, Admiral, Captain, if you want to talk more, please do it outside here. " She walked over to her patient, pulling the drapes closed behind her.

Foster raised an eyebrow, pulling himself off the bunk. "So the report was true? You got your doctor and your Exec back from the Falklands, Admiral?"

"Report?" Nelson asked sharply.

"I sent Chip's report to Ascension, " Crane explained. "Sparks transmitted it early yesterday under code."

"Yes, we picked it up at Faraday," Foster confirmed. "We have that code. It was one of the ones that we are sharing with you Americans at the moment.”

Nelson frowned. "Who read the report, Mister Foster?"

"Me and Dr. Temple. Do you think that might have set him off?" Foster asked hesitantly. "I didn't really notice anything in there that -- "

"Move along! " Sister Cornell hissed unexpectedly out of the curtains. "Outside!”

"Captain Crane will take you to the observation nose," the Admiral directed.

“You’re not coming, sir?” Foster asked.

“I have to speak with Sister Cornell about Doctor Jamieson,” Nelson replied firmly.

Crane waved the scientist to go out first and shot the Admiral a puzzled glance but didn’t comment. After the door shut, Nelson walked over to the alcove, parting the curtains slightly. "Sister Cornell?"

The nurse looked around, frowning. "Admiral!"

Nelson thought Jamieson looked only a little better than when he had come aboard even tough the beard was gone now. The man was half-propped on the bed pillows, his breathing harsh and loud, and his eyes flickering open but without any recognition. He kept stirring restlessly, his hair damp with sweat. “I don’t like to disturb you but I have a question."

The nurse checked a dial on the intravenous gear, then stepped away from the bed. "Outside here.”

The Admiral retreated to the outer room where Jamieson's desk was. He sat beside the pile of typed sheets of the doctor's papers while she checked the instruments once more.

She came out and pulled the curtains closed. "Yes, Admiral?" Cornell asked.

"Sister Cornell, did you know Alex Foster when you were in the Falklands?" Nelson asked.

"Oh, yes, indeed." She nodded her head. "He was a member of the garrison there five years ago or so. Alex and I used to listen to the Argentine broadcasts and talk about what was happening over there. He was attached to 3 Commando Logistics. "

"Which means?" Nelson asked.

"He was assigned to the Logistics branch of the SBS," she said distracted, hearing Jamieson move behind her. "He might have been working for MI-6 as well, but we never discussed that.”

"He's a spy?" the Admiral asked incredulously.

She wrinkled her nose. "'Intelligence officer' is the preferred term, I believe. As I said, we didn't talk about that. You might ask him." Nelson looked doubtful for a second. "After all, Admiral, we are all on the same side."

"I'm not sure everyone believes that," Nelson murmured. "Anything more you can tell me about Mister Foster?"

The sister shook her head. "Nothing. I have to get back to my patient."

The Admiral nodded as he stood, "How's Doc doing?"

"Not very well. We were lucky with the frostbite; it was localized in his nose, ears and hands mostly, a little on the feet, and it wasn't in that deep. He'll have some surface scarring and maybe some fat loss --

"Jamieson's never fat."

She frowned. "Frostbite can destroy subcutaneous fat pads. It'll give him less insulation in the future in cold weather. "

"What about his leg?"

"He might have arthritis but hopefully...well, he might always have a limp, Admiral," she said tiredly. "It'll take a great deal of therapy for him to fully recover. I'm more worried about the pneumonia. "

"We thought of flying him to Ascension in the Flying Sub," Nelson suggested. "From there back to Santa Barbara to recover."

She considered this, one hand on the drapes. "It's far quieter on this ship than in a hospital. Let's see how he does in a day or so. "

 

The winds barely ruffled the feathers of the rock hopper penguins roosting among the rocks. Far more annoying were the soldiers searching the small bay, led by a lean man with a Colonel's insignia on his parka.

"So this is the place where Major Roca fell?" Quadros finally asked, looking at Largo.

The soldier nodded nervously.

"So where is the body?"

"I don't know sir," Largo said his voice flat and unemotional. "There was a storm – “

"But the water here didn't reach this point," the Colonel interrupted, pointing to where clumps of kelp were piled high, showing where the water stopped. He looked down at the red-stained guano and frowned. "You can't even find blood in this stuff. "

"No, sir," the soldier said woodenly.

Quadros felt around in the rocks, a glint of mica catching his attention. He picked up the sparkling rock and discarded it, then reached out again.

The metal was just a shard but looked like part of a bullet. He turned it over in his fingers speculating on how it got there, then put it in his pocket.

"You said that Markle was helping the commandos here, and in the course of this, Major Roca was killed?" Quadros asked sharply.

"Si."

Colonel Quadros knelt down on the rocks gently sliding his hand under a penguin body. The bird indignantly pecked his wrists but the man's heavy gloves protected him. Finally the bird waddled off into the turbulent surf. Quadros reached down into the abandoned nest, his attention caught by something that glittered brighter than the bullet shard.

There were three spent bullets from an Argentine machine gun.

Quadros rose, sweeping sand off his knees, and looked around. His gaze scanned the tall cliffs around him, then fell on Largo, standing behind him.

"And when Major Roca was killed you left his body here – “

"We were under fire! " Largo blurted out, his face paler. "Fernando and I barely escaped with our lives! "

"But when you found Mister Markle, he had no gun! "

"No, sir. " In the icy breeze, Largo was sweating.

"I see. Well, there are no commandos here now. " Quadros looked around again, then started up the path. “Come. We return to the hut where you say the commandos met with Mister Markle."

"Si, Colonel." The soldier trudged after him.

The hut's door was wide open. Quadros looked around the shadowy interior, seeing the tin can with the smoothed edge, the spilt beans that had been crushed into the splintered wood, and the half-burned tin of fuel. He walked over to the chair and set it straight, surveying the room again.

A bean, loosened from its frozen patty by the vibration of the wood, rolled over the splintered floor and fell into a crack.

The Colonel went down on one knee, his attention caught. There was something jammed in the flooring. He stripped off his heavy glove and pried at the tarnished metal.

Finally he freed it and brushed off the dirt. The gold oak leaf lay in his hand.

The Argentine frowned rolling the metal over in his hand. Finally coming to some conclusion, he stood up. "We go back to Port Stanley, " he said flatly ignoring the curious glances Largo and the other guard gave him. "If there was a commando here, he is long gone."

The soldiers exchanged shrugs after the officer passed, then fell in behind him

 

 

“Any word from Palmer?” Crane asked, meeting Chip just outside the radio shack.

Morton looked frustrated as he shook his head. “No, sir. The radio’s out again and we can't trail the backup's antenna with the weather worsening. Mooring at Palmer's not going to be fun either! "

"The Antarctic isn't fun," Crane retorted. "At least not this trip!"

"Our guest's up in the observation nose,"Morton said.

Foster was seated by the windows watching the spectacular view of small ice chunks and hail splashing against Seaview's windows. From his expression, his mind was elsewhere turning over a problem.

"Some more coffee or tea?" Crane asked picking up a cup and pouring some for himself.

"No, thank you, sir," the slender man said, not turning his head. "This is quite a show, Captain."

"Thank you. When the sun's out, it's unbelievable," Crane commented, sitting down. "But I'll never forget one day on the way down here. The sea was red! "

Foster chuckled. "You ran into a krill swarm, Captain. Ancient mariners used to be terrified by the ocean around them turning blood-colored.”

"It was the largest swarm I've ever seen. We had krill in every vent and had to flush everything," Crane laughed. He spotted Nelson coming down the control room. "Admiral! "

Nelson turned to Chip. "Please join us, Mister Morton."

Morton looked startled by the order but put down his clipboard and followed. The Admiral pressed the button and the crash doors closed, sealing the four men in the observation nose.

"And now, Mister Foster, how about telling us precisely what you were doing off Humble Island!" he asked sharply.

The man eyed him warily, "What exactly do you mean, Admiral? I have told you. "

"Not exactly," Nelson replied. "What kind of espionage were you doing out there?"

Foster's shoulders tensed as he shook his head. "Seriously, Admiral, it wasn't that kind of a trip. We were doing some in-depth research before spending the night at Palmer. "

Nelson frowned. "Come on," the Admiral admonished. "I can't believe a man with your intelligence background would ask us to believe that. "

"How do you -- why do you think I'm in intelligence?" Foster asked leaning back on the table, his gaze on the Admiral.

"Either you are or Dr. Temple was," Nelson said bluntly. "Temple was fairly emphatic that he had to keep up on everything down here, and you were his commo officer. You admit that both you and he read the report on Chip and Doc – “

"What?" Chip interjected, his eyes widening slightly.

"So who is the spy or are you both spies!" Nelson finished.

Foster was silent for a second, then glanced out the windows. "I would have preferred that you talk with Dr. Grant before all this happened." His voice subtly changed tone and Nelson saw the facade of a pure scientist slip. What remained reminded the Admiral of Major Owen. The soldier.

Crane leaned against the table, his gaze studying the man. "What will he tell us?"

The young man grimaced. "Dr. Grant was supposed to explain."

"What?" Nelson demanded pounding his fist on the table.

"Dr. Charles Temple is a double-agent working for whosoever will pay his bill," Foster said simply. "We've -- I've been tracking him down here for two years now. We now has enough information to convict him but he's slipped his leash. "

The three officers glanced at one another in disbelief. Finally the Admiral asked, "What's your proof?"

Foster shrugged, casting his hands out. "Admiral, I can't tell you the reasoning because that's classified by my people. What I can say is that the report you gave Dr. Temple, the sheet on Commander Morton and Commander Jamieson, was shipped to a Major Roca on East Falkland around the tenth of this month. It was specifically at the Major's request, and some monies were transferred from a bank account to Dr. Temple's bank account in the Cayman Islands on the same day. "

Nelson suddenly remembered hearing Grant say about Temple, 'I really don't know how he keeps himself in funds.' Apparently by selling information, if Foster was honest.

"How did they know each other?" the Admiral inquired.

"Our sources say the information was requested of the Argentine Secret Police by Roca on the eighth. Apparently nothing was found in those files about Commander Morton beside a report of drinking with police officers from the first of April," Foster replied self-assuredly, glancing at Chip whose expression didn't change. "Someone in the Secret Police asked for information on this submarine and its officers from its undercover sources. They were provided with a sheet on Commanders Jamieson and Morton by Dr. Temple. " He studied their disbelieving expressions. "Please remember, gentlemen, that we have a number of different ice stations down here. The Argentines are not that far away and nor are the Russians.

"Temple said he visited the Russians quite often," Nelson said sharply.

"Indeed, he did and the last time was on the ninth. The Russians are trying to stay uninvolved but their spy trawler is in these waters and it was from it to an Argentine submarine, the Santa Fe, that the information was transmitted. From there it apparently reached Major Roca," Foster concluded.

"Then Roca turns around and tries to sell Chip to the Russians," Crane said amused. "Anticipating a profit, probably."

"Why is Dr. Grant involved?" Nelson asked.

Foster smiled. "The Foreign Office thought that if he explained, you'd believe it. As it is, I'm not sure you believe me, Admiral. "

Nelson eyed him. "You could be the spy just as easily as Temple. You've access to everything he had including Chip's resume. "

"Actually I didn't have access since Temple kept it in his private files, but I don't expect you to believe me," Foster simply replied. "Ask Dr. Grant when we reach Palmer. "

"Are you really a marine biologist?" Nelson questioned.

"I am getting my degree, yes. When l was stationed on the Falklands, I got interested in marine wildlife. " Foster said with an infectious grin. "And there is an endless amount of it down here. "

 

Markle finished the last of the dinner which had been served to him on a tin plate, and put the dish next to the door. He had been fed several times during his captivity, but the waiting was making him nervous. He spent time thinking of everything that was waiting for him back on West Falkland, then on everything that had happened, then slept, but time crawled by.

Hearing noises, he stood up and adjusted his clothes comfortably as footsteps came up the hallway and an order was barked.

lt swung open. The sergeant who beckoned him out, had his hand on the butt of his pistol but it wasn't drawn.

Head held high, Markle walked out, Finding two other soldiers in the hallway. The sergeant closed the door and followed as the two soldiers fell in beside the Englishman and they marched down the hall.

The sergeant tapped Markle on the shoulder, pointing that he should go the open door at the end of the hall.

The farmer complied, finding a small wooden table and two chairs. Incongruously, on one end of the table was a steaming pot of tea and two mugs with a small jar of sugar.

He heard the click of boots and Colonel Quadros walked into the room, waving his hand at the sergeant who retreated outside the door, taking the soldiers with him.

Markle glanced at the Colonel who sat down opposite him and lifted the pot of tea.

"Would you like some?" the Argentine asked politely.

"Wouldn't mind," Markle replied warily.

The Colonel smiled as he poured the amber liquid into the cups. He added a teaspoon of sugar to his and pulled it in front of him. "I took an interesting trip this morning," he started without preamble. "It was to a beach full of penguins. "

"Oh." Markle sipped his tea, enjoying the warmth.

"It was where Corporal Largo said Major Roca was killed by you and a British commando," Quadros said implacably.

Markle burned his tongue,

"I searched the beach. There was no body," Quadros continued enjoying the expression on Markle's face. "But Major Roca seems to be missing. Along with two American Naval officers. "

The farmer set down his cup. "Ah. Them. "

"You know of them, Mister Markle!" Quadros asked sharply.

"'Course. The doctor helped bandage up my head. He talked of his friend who was ill," Markle said smoothly.

"And what happened to them?" the Argentine questioned.

“I don’t know,” Markle lied staring the Colonel straight in the eye. “I assume Major Roca did something with them.”

Quadros smiled again, reaching into his coat pocket. “Major Roca had quite a reputation for ‘doing things’ with people. It was one of the reasons he was sent here.”

"He was part of the Secret Police?" Markle asked.

"Yes. Unfortunately, he is now a disappeared person himself.”

 _And no great loss from your expression,_ Markle thought. “What are you here for, Colonel? Do you know what happened to the Americans?”

"I was asked by my superiors to find out what happened to the Americans. Their government lodged several notes demanding information on their release." The Argentine shrugged and spread his hands. "But I get here and what do I find? That Major Roca has taken one American somewhere and come back alone, then later he does the same to the other; then two days later he is shot by a supposed commando - who doesn't seem to exist - on an empty beach near an abandoned hut in which I find?" Quadros picked the small oak leaf out of his pocket and put it in front of Markle. "This.”

The farmer stared at it, his eyes widening betrayingly, then slowly shook his head. “That’s American insignia. What was it doing in that hut, Colonel?”

The Argentine stared at him intently. “Based on a report I found in Roca’s baggage including a secret report on the American submarines, I have a theory. The Americans killed Major Roca.”

 _They'd have loved to, but not quite,_ Markle thought. He kept his face impassive as Quadros continued. "The _Seaview_ , a most impressive submarine, was tipped off that Major Roca had its officers prisoner. They came ashore and took their men back, killing the Major in the process," Quadros suggested, eying his prisoner.

"How would they have known about their officers?" Markle asked.

"Someone with a radio told them," Quadros said silkily. "A radio like the one in the back of the van that you own. "

Markle saw the pit gaping in front of him. "My radio? It's almost forty years old, Colonel! I barely pick up the BBC on it!"

"I had it tested. It can reach our station in Tierra Del Fuego," Quadros stated. "So it can reach a submarine if necessary. What do you think of my theory, Mister Markle."

The farmer shook his head. "It's rubbish, Colonel. I'm no hero and why would I be for an American?"

Quadros smiled. "Your record is impressive. You are too shy about your accomplishments to say you are no hero."

"Not for an American," Markle repeated, seeing his chances for a firing squad increasing. "Why should I—"

"Being English would be enough of a reason," Quadros said amused.

Outside they heard a hubble of voices. Quadros frowned, and strode to the door, opening it. "Que? "

A flood of Spanish came out interspersed with the words 'South Georgia'.

The Colonel wheeled around to stare at Markle who cocked his head and looked puzzled.

"What's happening, Colonel!"

The Argentine turned back to the guard, pulling the door open. "Take Mister Markle back to his cell, then meet me downstairs.”

"What's happened?" the farmer repeated standing up.

"Your commandos have been spotted near South Georgia. It is now under attack by your helicopters," the Colonel said emotionlessly. "The first battle has started. "

"The beginning of the end," Markle suggested as he went over to the door.

"For whom? " Quadros answered his eyes sparkling with sudden amusement. "Tomorrow we will talk again. Sleep well, Mister Markle. "

"Sleep well, Colonel," Markle called, as he followed the guard.

Locked in again, the farmer let out a soft laugh as he looked around the barren room.

He had wanted to tweak their noses and that was exactly what was happening.

 

Wearing his thickest parka, Nelson jumped to the concrete of the half-finished pier and started up the path towards Palmer station. The two buildings were shadowy bulks in the blinding snowstorm that had descended on them as Crane, Foster and Kowalski had set off with the Admiral.

Inside the Biolab, Nelson doffed the parka, hanging it over his arm, and brushed a few snowflakes out of his hair. Crane brushed back his hood and looked around curiously.

"Dr. Crant! Dr, Grant!" the Admiral yelled, hearing his voice reverberate off the walls.

"Admiral!" Grant came through a door and beckoned. He looked reasonably healthy for a man they'd thought might be dead. "In here, Harriman! "

By the time they reached him, he was sitting in front of the radio tuning in a very poor broadcast of the BBC.

"What is it?" the Admiral questioned, tossing his parka over an empty chair. "You certainly sent a cryptic message, Paul!"

Grant waved him down. "Ssh! I finally got this clear. South Georgia's just been attacked, Harry, and the Brits are wiping up the Argentines! "

"Knew it would take just a bit of time," Foster said with an infectious grin.

Nelson stared at him, then at Grant. "Paul, you dragged me all the way down here -- "

"Alex! " Crant held out his hand and Foster shook it. "Glad to see you! "

"Thank the Admiral," Foster said soberly. "If he hadn't picked me up in the raft, I'd be dead right now. "

Grant frowned, pulling off his headset. "The raft? "

"Paul! Tell me why you called me! " the Admiral interjected sharply.

"It was actually a call from the Pentagon, who said they couldn't reach you." Grant peered at Crane who muttered under his breath something about ripping out a radio. "They want you to arrest Charles Temple and bring him to Ascension Island -- "

"For what reason? " Nelson asked.

The sciencist wrinkled his nose. "They say he's been shipping secret information to a number of different places. It might explain why he's got some extra money but why they don't just wait till the next seaplane to recall him or arrest him -- "

"Because he sold some information to the Argies that have compromised our men in the Falklands," Foster cut him off ruthlessly. "And he knows enough to give them a lot more, like the British contacts there. I couldn't keep him from seeing the cables that came in. "

"You had to wait for orders from the UEC?" the Admiral asked, turning to Foster.

Foster nodded. "Unfortunately. I hope it didn't cost lives. "

"Like Chip's report," Crane said uneasily.

"Yes. The report had all the names of the people who helped you. Temple probably didn't have time to send it out before he left, so the Argies probably don't know about your friends Markle and Owen yet. I hope they don't," Foster concluded. "It might get both Markle and Owen killed. "

"Where is Temple now?" Grant asked. "You talk as if he's been lost. "

"He has," Foster said with a wry smile. "He took the _Broome_ and went off into the high seas. He could be at Bellinghausen -,"

"It's mostly shut down for the winter with minimal facilities. No one plans on visitors down here," Grant mused. "Damn, I liked Temple! l hope you're wrong about him, Alex. "

"I wish I was," Foster replied. "He was brilliant with krill. It all came down to money in the end, though, and he was running out of funding. "

"Well, what do you suggest we do now?" the Admiral asked acidly. "Go look for Temple?"

"I think I know where he might be," Crane said unexpectedly.

The others looked inquiringly at him.

"Before we found you, Mister Foster, we got a trace of another boat headed out towards the South Shetland Islands. It might have been Doctor Temple’s boat,” Crane explained.

“There’s a Chilean base there; there's also the Russians. Maybe you're right, Admiral," Foster said. "Maybe he is going to the Russians."

Grant held out a telex form. “Admiral Pauley sent this for you, Harriman.”

The words were pithy and clear. “We are to pursue every course to arrest Dr. Temple and return him to the British authorities.” Nelson looked at Foster. “I assume you’ll be coming with us?”

"If you like," Foster said peaceably. "I can be the liaison.”

"Good," Grant put in. "The Brits on on the Task Force will have someone who can speak their own language!”

“Then let’s get moving,” the Admiral ordered, pulling on his parka again. "Paul, is there anything else we can do for you?"

The scientist shook his head, his eyes fu1l of amusement as he put on the headset. "I'll call Admiral Pauley and say you got the message. Hell of a slave driver, isn't he? "

Nelson grinned. "No comment. We might finally get our radio working and take him off your hands!"

"If you need some spare parts, I've got an old radio. It might help. I'll also pass on to Faraday that you'll be with _Seaview_ ," Grant added looking at Foster. "So they won't keep the penguin burning for you."

"Horrid thought," the man replied. "We use kerosene, you know. Or gasoline. I haven't seen a penguin lamp except in picture books!"

"Let's go! " the Admiral growled.

 

Jamieson's first thought was that it was warm and he had never expected to feel warm again. The omnipresent pain in his leg that had haunted him for three weeks was gone and as he came more awake, he could hear soft familiar sounds like the low hum of an air purification unit and the soft beeping of a medical monitor. He finally opened his eyes and recognized the grey metal overhead of _Seaview_ 's Sick Bay.

Relief made him dizzy. The last thing he remembered clearly was taking Major Owen's pill in the hut. Hadn't Captain Crane been there? How had he gotten to Sick Bay?

He squinted down at his knee, seeing a snowy hump where the cloth covered his leg. He still had a leg, didn't he? He tentatively raised his right foot and was relieved to see the bump in the cloth. Someone had put a pillow under his knee so that it rested comfortably.

He lifted one hand, realizing that the handcuffs were finally gone. Thank God. His wrists felt raw and throbbing from the frozen metal of the handcuffs, but they were covered with light bandages. In fact, most of his hands were wrapped in sterile dressings and he could feel the gauze on his feet. Frostbite in th e extremities. Where was everyone?

Jamieson struggled to stay awake but finally he succumbed to exhaustion and shut his eyes, slipping back into a doze.

He heard soft steps and opened one lid to see the dark-haired woman outlined in the light of the main room

"You're finally awake," she said softly, letting the white sheet fall behind her. "How do you feel? "

The doctor studied her for a second, then stirred, lifting his right hand up. "Floating. "

Cornell came up beside the bed, catching his hand. "Do you feel my fingers!"

He frowned, concentrating. "Yes. Yes...I do. Frost...bite!"

"Some. Ar least your fever's broken," she murmured, putting her hand on his forehead. "They were worried about you, Doctor. All of us were. "

"I...worried about you," he said drowsily. "I didn't know what happened after Roca dragged... you out. "

"He took me and your Mister Morton to a hut where he tried selling the Commander to the Russians," she told him merrily, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "Actually the Major ended up selling him back to your Admiral who was masquerading as a Russian. Are you getting all this?"

"Not a word," Jamieson mumbled, falling asleep. "What happened to Roca? Is he still out there! I want to meet him again... "

"I'm told he's dead," her voice dropped soberly. "You don't have to worry about him."


	17. April 26, 1982

Markle was awakened by the sound of the cell door being unlocked. The Sergeant beckoned for him to come out and led him to the same interrogation room as before.

No pot of tea sat on the wooden table and Colonel Quadros was half-turned away staring out the window at the troops milling outside.

“Mister Markle,” the Argentine started without preamble after the sergeant left. “It is time for you to leave.”

Markle barely kept his composure. "I...good, Colonel. I'm glad that you didn't believe that I killed your Major. Has he turned up yet?"

"No, not yet. We're still investigating," Quadros said crisply. "But I have ordered your release. Your van has also been released and is waiting outside."

"Why?" Marple asked baldly.

Quadros smiled. "Because there was no reason for you to be held. No proof. If I find some, I will re-arrest you and try you. Until then you are under martial law as are all the civilians in the Falklands and have to abide by our rules. "

"Oh. " Markle assessed the well-dressed officer across the table with a little more respect than he had had before. "Then I'll go. Tell me one thing, Colonel. Did you ever really like Major Roca!"

Quadros gave a dismissing wave. "He was a termite better lost. But he was an officer and his disappearance is being investigated."

"I thought as much," Markle said coolly, nodding his head. "Your men outside know I'm to go!"

"Yes. " The Colonel stared outside the window again. "If you hurry you can make the mid-day ferry back to West Falkland. "

"Well, cheerio, Colonel. Good luck in the battle," Markle commented.

"Have a good trip home, Sergeant-Major Markle," Quadros replied.

 

Morton knew that Foster's story was true when he saw the expressions on Nelson and Crane's faces.

"Chip, get us to where we spotted that other boat," Crane ordered. "Hurry. "

"Aye, aye, sir. " Chip relayed the orders as Sharkey took the parkas and disappeared down the corridor. "You've heard the news!"

Crane frowned. "What news?"

"About South Georgia," Foster replied. "Sparks has the raw data. We've have retaken it without a casualty."

"What is the situation, Captain ?" Morton asked.

"Let's get out here and I'll explain."

They'd maneuvered the submarine into the Sound before Crane had a chance to brief Morton on what had happened.

The Exec's expression was troubled when Crane finished. "So, Dr. Temple has a copy of the report we sent. "

"Yes. Of all the things the radio got through, it had to be that one!"

"Then Mister Markle and Major Owen --

"Are in danger. Only if Dr. Temple manages to get it to the Argentines," Crane said.

"All very well if we catch up with Temple, but what happens if he's already passed it on?" Chip asked forthrightly.

Crane grimaced. "Then they are in trouble. "

"You're not kidding!"

Lee's gaze met Morton's. "And there's nothing we can do about it, Chip. "

"I recall saying that to you," Nelson commented from behind them. "And it didn't stop you for a second, Lee. "

"Admiral, we have to do something," Morton said tightly.

"We'll never get into the Falklands at this point, " Crane argued. "The UK's got them blockaded."

"We can using the Flying Sub," Morton said abruptly. "Go in and find out the lay of the land, find out where Markle is."

Crane stared at him. "I thought you didn't want any involvement of FS-1. That it was too expensive a sale item. "

"That was before our allies got sold down the river," Morton retorted harshly. He took a deep breath and let it out, seeing both the Admiral and the Captain staring at him. "I want to know if Markle or Owen are still around, Captain. We owe them to find out."

"I agree," Nelson commented ignoring Chip's heated tone. "I think Foster might be able to help there."

"And then what?" Crane challenged them both. "The US is still neutral! We can't do anything!"

"It's our responsibility! " Chip shot back at him. "If it wasn't for Doc and me, Markle and Owen wouldn't even have been involved except in the normal state of affairs. Don't tell me we can walk away! "

"Everyone's changed places," the Admiral said with a laugh. "Let's see if we can get Temple before he passes on the information! "

"If we can't, it will be too late for Markle and Owen," Chip said.

"Ahead all flank, Mister Morton," Crane ordered.

"Aye-aye, sir! "


	18. April 27, 1982

Quadros stubbed out his cigarette and grimly read the latest updates again. He tossed them on the wooden table and checked his watch, then stood as someone knocked on door.

"Come in!" he ordered.

The burly man dressed in a worn parka walked unsteadily as if he expected the floor to rock. From his pallor, he must have been very seasick on the way to East Falkland. He pulled back a chair and sat down before Quadros could invite him to sit.

"Dr. Temple!" the Argentine asked politely. "You are here from the British ice station, Faraday?”

Temple smiled . "As you already know, Colonel. I'm sure the captain of your spy freighter that brought me here told you everything and it's already been checked with Buenos Ares."

The Argentine frowned as he looked at the messages in his hand. "I have an order here to cooperate with you. You said you had one thing for us, Dr. Temple. Something important."

The scientist smiled unpleasantly. "Something that costs hard money. Has your government made the arrangements?"

Quadros met his gaze with cool self-control, assessing the Englishman's demeanor. "I have been told it's taken care of. What do you have for us?"

Temple handed over several sheets of paper. "I believe you are missing a major, Colonel. Read this. It explains everything that happened."

Quadros sat back and began reading. Temple watched different emotions chase across the officer's face as he scanned the sheets, then saw anger, tightly controlled, win out.

"So, Mister Markle was involved," Quadros mused putting down the sheets. "And there is a British commando up near Port San Carlos."

"Rather," Temple said sitting comfortably. "But he's still alone as of now. His teammates haven't arrived yet. "

"As of two-three days ago," Quadros contradicted him. "Military situations change fast in this area, Doctor. "

"True. I believe you have some other orders regarding me," Temple asked.

"Yes. The next flight to Uruguay is in two hours. I suggest you be at the airstrip and ready to leave," Quadros said dismissively. "Here is the slip which will permit you a seat on the flight. " He handed the doctor a piece of paper that Temple stored in his jacket pocket as he stood.

The scientist scowled as he inspected the colonel. "I expected a little more respect, Colonel Quadros. "

"You were a nationally-respected scientist for your studies, Dr. Temple," Quadros commented with slight contempt. "Now you are a rich traitor to your country and a former spy. I suggest you make that flight. I will be too busy to accompany you to the airfield. "

Temple flushed red and walked out without another word.

Quadros sank down and looked over the sheets of paper again. It was a damning report on all counts, he mused. Roca's naked greed, Markle's contrivance, the commando -- which wasn't totally unexpected, of course -- the innocent American pawns. His gaze dropped to the last sheet where two lines were devoted to the doctor's condition. Stable but uncertain. "This shouldn't have happened," the Colonel muttered. "It is an affront to Argentina's honor. So what do I do now?" He walked to the operations room, "What I have to do. I need a squad of men. "

 

Major Owen sat in the lee of a granite boulder and watched patiently as Argentine troops dug land mines on either side of him. They were pressuring his position and he was thinking of retreating to his cave hideaway for a while until the soldiers went away.

Two large trucks drove up filled with troops, and an immaculately uniformed Colonel stepped out of the cab of the first. He went over to the officer in charge of laying the mines and spoke to him, then waved to the men who were pouring out of the back of the trucks.

Owen felt a chill go down his spine. His well-honed survival instincts told him that these men, that Colonel, were looking for someone and that someone could possibly be him.

He began to work his way back through the rocks and began climbing down the steep rock face towards his hidden cave.

The fading light of day made the climb even more difficult than he expected. Mountainous waves crashed against the cliff walls ten feet below the cave where he has stashed the Gemini raft along with his rations and a radio. The cave looked out to the west where the low hills of West Falkland had a line of dark black clouds hanging over them promising a gale that night. Swinging into the cave, he heard the voices directly above him on the cliff's edge.

Owen cursed for a second. He had neglected one of the first rules: leave yourself an out.

He quietly tuned his radio, aiming it out towards the archipelago and transmitted a distress call. The commando prayed that the Argentines above him didn't have a radio. It would be impossible to get the raft out of the cave until the tide rose.

 

 

By late afternoon _Seaview_ had reached the area where they'd seen the mysterious boat. The sea around them was empty as they surfaced off King George Island. To the north, the Drake Passage was quiet for the moment, a mild breeze ruffling its steel-grey waters. Crane climbed to the top of the sail and scanned the ocean but saw nothing that would tell them what happened.

Morton and the Admiral joined him. "Lee! " Nelson asked.

"Nothing, sir." Crane passed the binoculars to the Admiral. "Not even a sea gull."

Nelson turned and scanned the barely perceptible edge of the island to the south. "Then I suppose we'll have to run a circular course and hope that we run across the ship.”

"That's going to take some time, sir," Morton commented. "But if we check north first, we might have some luck."

"The Falklands are due north of here," Nelson agreed with a slight smile. "You're right, Mister Morton. Due north. " 

"Yes, sir!" Morton agreed, picking up the microphone. “navigation, head due north.”

“Yes, sir.” The nose of the submarine shifted direction.

Crane scanned the surface again, noticing this time an iceberg slowly making its majestic way around the edge of the island. The towering heights glittered in the fading sunlight like a fairy-tale castle in a child’s book. “you’re determined on this, aren’t you, Chip?” he asked idly, enjoying the fresh air and breeze that tousled his dark hair.

Morton leaned on the edge of the sail, his gaze fastened on the far horion. “Yes.”

"Why? What makes this so personal?" Crane inquired. "And don't tell me it's just Doc because this isn't the first time Jamieson's ended up in his own Sick Bay and you've never gone off on a vendetta."

Chip shifted position uncomfortably. "It's partly Jamieson. It's partly that I don't like being a victim and that's what Roca turned me into."

"You have never liked not having control of a situation," Crane mused. "I knew that back in Annapolis. You were always ahead of the game so that you never lost control."

"I've learned you can't control everything," Morton commented, slanting a glance at Crane. "Otherwise I'd be in a rubber room right now. But this is personal, and somehow I feel it's incomplete. "

"In other words, you didn't get a shot at Roca like you wanted," Crane translated.

Morton grinned. "Only if that doesn't go down in an official report, Lee."

"Agreed. " Crane leaned his parka-clad arm on the side of the sail and eyed his friend. "What happens if we can't catch up with Temple?"

"Nothing happens unless -- "

The microphone crackled and Crane picked it up. "Crane."

"Captain, we're getting a coded emergency call from the Falklands," Sparks said urgently.

Crane straightened up as Chip swung around alertly. "Can you decode it, Sparks?"

"No, sir. It's not a code I recognize and it's not among the codes we got --

"Try Mister Foster," Morton interrupted. "If it's a British code he might recognize it."

"Call Foster. We'll be there in a second, Sparks," Crane ordered then hung the microphone on the side of the island. "I see he got the radio working again finally. "

"Grant's spare parts worked. The Admiral's going to have something to say to the contractors back in Santa Barbara, though," Chip said. "I'll make sure the Flying Sub is ready. "

Crane paused on the ladder. "Do you think the Admiral is going to sanction any kind of that activity? "

Morton glared for a second, then realized it was a rhetorical question. Nelson's interest in action over inaction was well-known. "Just in case. And I'm going along, Lee. "

The Captain frowned, then met Chip's angry eyes. "Of course, Mister Morton," he said with a grin. “Let's find out what it's all about now. "

Foster was already in the control room by the time they reached it, bending over the coded groups printed on the slip that Sparks handed him.

"Any luck?" Crane inquired, hanging the parka on the railing of the periscope island.

"It's a distress call from East Falkland," Foster mused, not looking up. "Puzzle palace, leak, bootie, bug-out, dip, thin-out,..."

"What the hell?" Chip asked.

Foster grinned broadly as he scanned the bewildered faces. "You'd never be able to translate, gentlemen. It's aimed at a very specific audience."

"Meaning?"

"It's aimed at the Task Force or any 3 Commandos in the area. Royal Marine talk."

"But what does it mean, Mister Foster?" Nelson asked, coming up behind Crane.

"Puzzle Palace is headquarters. Leak or leek, I don't know what that means --

"Owen," the Admiral said abruptly. The others turned in surprise. "It has to be Major Owen. He's Welsh. Welsh leeks, you know."

"Major Owen?" Foster said startled. "Oh, my word, Major Reginald Owen?"

"Yes. Why? " Nelson asked in curiosity. Foster's tone was not necessarily approving.

"Owen was one of my commanders in Port Stanley. He's about the only man I know who'd be able to do everything you wrote in that report."

"But you don't approve of him?" Crane asked.

Foster shrugged giving a sheepish grin. "No one ever got a thing past Major Owen. He was admired but not necessarily loved. "

"What else was in the message?" the Admiral questioned.

"Bootie means one of the Marines, bug-out means a withdrawal, dip, coming off badly in a situation. Thin-out is departure. I think we can conclude that Owen is withdrawing from a bad situation."

"Would he mind a hand?" Nelson asked dryly. "Escaping, that is."

Foster frowned. "Probably not, if we could track where he was transmitting from. Is he still transmitting!" he asked Sparks.

"Every five minutes," Sparks said with a frown. "Same message. Or that's all we're picking up."

"So either he has already moved on or he is about to leave," Foster commented.

"Either way, it's worth a shot," Morton said casually, leaning on the radio, his gaze on Nelson and Crane.

Nelson grinned. "It's worth a shot, I agree. Have the Flying Sub readied for launch, Mister Morton. Lee, take Kowalski and," he eyed Morton who looked ready to protest, "Chip, and scout it out. Discreetly."

Chip raised his eyebrow. "In a bright yellow Flying Sub?"

Crane snorted. "We'll stay underwater where we won't show up."

"Can I come?" Foster asked eagerly.

"I'd prefer you to stay," Nelson replied. "You're the only one who can translate what Owen's saying."

"I'm also the one who knows the Islands better than you do," Foster argued. "I know the waters better than any map on this ship!"

"Can you dive?" Morton questioned.

"Yes, sir. lt was part of my training," Foster replied.

"I assume Major Owen knows how to use a diving rig!" Chip asked hopefully.

Foster grinned. "Very well, indeed. Our commandos train both here and in Norway with the NATO troops. We're all used to icy water swimming!"

"Then you'd better go along," Nelson concluded. "Kowalski can stay here. Sparks, any idea how long that call's been going!"

"No, sir. I picked it up fifteen minutes ago," Sparks replied.

"Let's go! " said Crane, picking up his parka and heading for the Flying Sub: Morton and Foster followed on his heels.

Sparks looked up at the Admiral, who was watching his enthusiastic officers with the expression of a tolerant father. "Do you think they'll bring someone back, Admiral?"

Nelson grinned at him. "It won't be for lack of trying, Sparks'."

 

In the fading sunlight, the water glowed with phosphorescence, and seals and penguins hunted their dinners among the fish feeding on the krill. A last ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and hit the whitecaps.

The wind whistled past Owen's cave like an Irish banshee. Outside he saw the ghostly forms of several albatross wing by. The incoming tide brought the water to within three feet of the cave at its highest tide point.

Owen debated whether he should leave or stay. The Argentines had probably all gone back to their tents now. He hadn't heard voices for the last hour.

Crack, snap. What was that?

He pulled out his pistol and stepped forward.

A man swung into the cave, knocking Owen onto his back.

Owen grappled with the wet intruder as a second man swung down on another rope.

The first man squirmed out of Owen’s grip as the other man jumped the commando. The Argentine soldier fumbled for his gun as Owen sent the second man flying over his head to land stunned against the wall.

Before the soldier could draw the gun, Owen snapped out his hand in a karate chop, doubling the newcomer up. With a crack he hit the soldier in the side of the neck, knocking him out.

Swinging around, Owen looked down the mouth of the drawn pistol of the man whom he had thrown against the wall. The soldier was grinning as he indicated the commando should back up against the wall, his hands up.

Cursing under his breath for taking anything for granted, Owen retreated. Outside he heard a rope slap against the granite cliff and the sound of boots against rock. More soldiers were coming.

Unexpectedly, a flare soared up from the sea illuminating the scene with a harsh incandescent glare. Taken by surprise, Owen glanced outside but saw nothing but turbulent water.

The soldier cursed, squinting his eyes.

Owen desperately kicked up sand into the gunman's face, and in that instant of surprise, he dove out the mouth of the cave, a soaring swallow dive that took him into the turbulent high waves of the bay below. He heard gunfire behind him.

He regretted his impulsive act immediately. Owen had trained in Norwegian waters but the chill that soaked right through his pants and woolen sweater drained his energy so quickly he could barely kick for the surface. Reaching it and dragging in a lungful of air, he was hit in the face by a huge wave, swallowing some of the frigid salt water and choking. He sank again, feeling the icy water dragging him down.

That wasn't the only thing dragging him down, he realized suddenly as someone took hold of him, holding his arms to his sides, as another hand thrust a Fubber mouthpiece between his lips. He choked, then dragged on the air, adrenalin giving him the energy to look around.

The two divers wore ghostly black wetsuits with matching tanks. The diver behind him let go as soon as Owen stopped struggling, and held out a tank. After a second, Owen let him slip the straps of the air tank over his shoulders.

The men guided him underwater towards the mouth of the bay. His hands and feet were numb by the time they paused. The trio sank deeper, underneath something that looked vaguely yellow to Owen's blurred vision.

He was dragged into a small, enclosed space, one man with him, the other waiting outside. He felt a metal hatch close under his feet and then the water drained around him. He spat out the mouthpiece and leaned back against the wall as the diver rapped on the roof of the airlock.

The hatch was swung open, giving a welcome glare of light and warmth. He looked up to see a familiar grin on the face of the man above. "Captain Crane? " Owen asked in disbelief through blue lips. He shivered as icy water dripped off his clothing.

"Get him out of here," the diver ordered, stripping off his hood and tossing it out. Owen stared at the blond man, who gave him a wide grin and a push up the ladder. "We have to get Foster aboard. Sorry it took so long but we couldn't bring the Flying Sub up to your cave, Major. Then we saw you had guests."

"Commander...Morton. Nice to see you again." Owen pulled himself up with help from Crane. "What...are you doing...here?"

"Your message," Morton explained, climbing out behind him. "We were going to give you a tank and ask you to come along so Foster and I were already in the water."

Crane cranked down the hatch and indicated that the other diver should come aboard. "We didn't realize how close it was going to be.”

"So it was the message that got you?" Owen asked through chattering teeth as he stripped.

Chip tossed Owen a towel and picked up his own, stripping off the wetsuit. He toweled himself dry and put on underwear, thick pants and a sweater. "There're some jumpsuits in the storage locker beside you, Major. Hope one fits."

"A spy down in the Antarctic got a copy of the report we sent to Ascension," Crane explained as he waited for the signal to undog the upper hatch.

"What was in it?" Owen said as he pulled on the blue jumpsuit he found.

"The whole story. And if they're after you, then it's a good bet that they’re after Markle," Chip said bluntly.

Owen sat down against the wall, pulling his sodden map out of the pocket of his wet pants and laying it to dry. "So now what, gentlemen?"

Crane undogged the hatch and helped the other diver out, stashing the air tanks in the locker.

The diver stripped off his headgear. Foster met Owen's stunned gaze with an irrepressible grin. "Glad to see you again, Major."

"What are you doing here?" Owen inquired in a hard tone. "I thought we shipped you back after that incident with the helicopter."

"You should thank him for being able to translate your message," Chip said dryly. "Otherwise we'd never have understood it."

"It was aimed at my partners, who are somewhere in the archipelago," Owen replied. "I guess they moved on."

"We're out of here," Crane stated flatly. "Before someone calls the Argentine navy."

He sat down in the command chair and strapped in, fastening the microphone around his neck. He started the engines as Chip took the other control seat and Owen took one of the passenger seats. Foster propped himself against the wall.

"To Markle's farm," Chip said smoothly. "We may have time to save him."

"And we may get caught," Crane commented. "Hold on." He guided the Flying Sub north into the deeper waters of the Scotia Sea. When he was well away from the shore, he broke the surface and headed for West Falkland.

 

Sister Cornell made a small tick on the sheet of paper in front of her and turned it over. The text of Jamieson's article still had a few typos in it.

The man lying in the bed beside her opened his eyes and looked around with a puzzled, disconnected expression.

She put down the papers she was marking and smiled at him. "How do you feel?"

His gaze drifted down to her and he smiled painfully, judging from his expression. "Better." His voice was still rough from coughing.

"You should. We've been giving you every antibiotic in your office," she said standing up. "Your pneumonia just wouldn't give up."

Jamieson stared at her with a serious expression. "What did you have...to amputate?"

"Amputate?" Cornell replied startled.

"My...hands. Feet. I could feel them freezing," he said slowly. "What was… the damage?" 

She smiled reassuringly. "Lift up your hands. All your fingers are still attached, Doctor. And your feet have all their toes. You were tremendously lucky, Doctor Jamieson. There may be numbness but you should recover from the frostbite entirely."

He sighed and relaxed a fraction. "I worried...about that. My knee?"

"That's what will keep you from the dance floor," she said calmly. "You will have to do therapy on it or it may never be the same again."

"I thought...so," Jamieson replied, looking down his body. "What else has been...happening?"

"Well, as far as I can tell, we are heading for the Falklands again," Cornell chuckled sitting on her stool. "Apparently to get Mister Markle and Major Owen."

"What? What's been happening?" the doctor's voice was stronger as he peered at her.

"What do you remember?" she asked. "Where shall I start?"

"Is that my paper? How'd...it get here?"

She smiled at him. "It's not really your manuscript. We had to burn that.”

He frowned. "Burn?"

 

Markle climbed the rough path up over the cliffs and looked down at the sparkling sea. The clouds parted occasionally to let moonbeams gild the white-topped waves, but the harsh wind made his ears tingle under his battered cap. Looking around, he saw the black shapes of sheep as they grazed the hilltop.

He heard the whine of a jet engine and he looked up with a frown. The Argentines had stopped flying in at night after one of their airplanes had crashed. Who could it be?

It was huge and yellow and hit the water of the bay smoothly, sinking underneath the heavy waves. "A bloody flying saucer." Markle muttered, considerably startled. "That's all we need now."

Behind him, he heard the sound of automobile engines, and he turned, to look down the headland towards the road and his farmhouse.

In one window could be seen the light from Amy's kitchen, while the rest of the house was dark. Coming along the road towards the house were several sets of headlights.

Markle realized that his luck had run out. Quadros had said if he found proof of Markle's involvement, he would come for him, and that was the only explanation the farmer could give for the caravan. Would they take Amy too? What was going to happen to his daughter?

Looking down at the sea again, he saw a great yellow shape on the surface gliding toward the beach, where it grounded itself.

"Oh, God, it must be the Americans," he muttered. "Only they'd have such a silly looking ship."

A blond-haired man dressed in a parka and heavy pants splashed ashore from the back of the craft, and climbed to the rocky shore, looking around.

Markle started for the beach hurriedly, sliding on the frozen path that led downward. "Lord save me, what are you doing here? I thought I was rid of the lot of you! "

Morton grinned. "Not yet, Mister Markle."

"But they're coming over the hill, Commander! There's two Rovers full at least! " Markle said harshly. "What are you doing back here?"

"I came for you, to take you out of here before the Argentines arrest you again," Morton said crisply. "We can give you refuge on _Seaview_ till this is over."

"But what about Amy?" Markle replied angrily. "My daughter's in the house! "

Morton looked up at the hills. "Can we reach her before they do?"

"No," the farmer spat out. "They'll be there in minutes."

"But they want you, right?" Chip pointed out. "They'll be looking for you. She shouldn't be in danger unless you're around."

His impeccable logic annoyed Markle, though he saw the sense of it. "I can't just leave her-- "

"What would she want?" Morton asked him softly putting his hand on the man’s arm. "You, a captive headed for prison, or free to come back if the UK wins. Tell me that, Sergeant-Major? "

Markle hesitated, looking back at the house. "I should be there to protect her. "

"By being arrested?"

"You're right, Morton, but I don't want to go despite that," Markle said angrily, shaking free of Chip's hand. "But you're right. How do we get out of here!"

"Follow me," Chip ordered, leading the way into the cold water. They waded waist-deep to the rear of the Flying Sub where Foster and Owen pulled them aboard. The scientist shut the hatch as Chip went forward to the controls, dripping sea water with each step.

Crane was already powering up the engines and backing FS-1 back into the cold waters.

They saw headlights come over rhe crest and down the hill in a dangerous dip. Men tumbled out of the Land Rovers and aimed their rifles at the Flying Sub as it glided off into the bay.

Morton winced as he heard a bullet ping off the metallic hull. "You and your bright ideas, Chip," he muttered sotto voce.

"A few dents! We'll let Sharkey at it, and you won't even know it happened." Crane aimed the nose upwards and accelerated.

The Flying Sub soared into the air, moonlight bathing it in yellow splendor until it disappeared into the clouds.

Owen looked at Markle who was strapped into the third seat, the Major and Foster having braced themselves on the deck instead. "Nice to see you again, sir. "

"Good to see you, Major," Markle replied urbanely, though he still looked worried. "That's an interesting suit you've got. "

Owen grinned. "Courtesy of the US Navy."

"We'll be flying for several hours, so you might want to get comfortable," Crane called back. "We'll reach Seaview around midnight."

"Good. Got any dry socks?" Markle asked, unlacing his soaked boots.

"On _Seaview._ Use the towels to dry off," Morton suggested. "That's what I plan to do."

 

 

Harsh currents buffeted the submarine as the magnetic grapples brought the Flying Sub aboard.

"They're in. Set course for Ascension," Nelson ordered O'Brien. "Flank.”

"Aye, aye, sir."

At Nelson's signal, Sharkey cranked the hatch and pulled it up. First up was Markle, looking vastly amused at the situation.

Next came Major Owen, who looked younger than his years by virtue of the blue jumpsuit. "Hullo, Admiral."

"Welcome back aboard, Major Owen."

The commando grinned wearily. "Glad to be back, sir."

Crane, Foster and Morton climbed up, Morton's pants still damp from the wetting on the beach.

"Where are we headed, Admiral?" Crane asked.

"Ascension," Nelson replied. "I decided that that was the proper place to drop our guests and I plan to send Jamieson back to Santa Barbara from there. Which reminds me," Nelson turned to Morton, "Chip, Doc wants to see you. Why don't you get changed and go on down before he falls asleep again!"

Morton nodded, his expression reluctant. "Mister Markle, Major Owen, I can show you to your cabins along the way."

"Thank you," Markle said with a grin which spread from ear to ear.

"I'll just go along and make sure everything's proper," Sharkey murmured into Nelson's ear. "That they don't need anything else."

"Good idea, Chief," Nelson agreed. "Try to find them some clothing."

 

Morton changed his wet trousers before going down to Sick Bay. As he brushed his hair, he realized he was procrastinating. We really didn't want to go down there. He still felt guilty about getting Doc into this in the first place, though he knew it was pure nonsense. They had been swept up in the war; neither had gone out of the way to get into trouble. So why had the non-combatant been the one who suffered?

Morton tossed down his brush and walked out feeling as if he was going to the guillotine.

In Sick Bay he saw Parker and Cornell talking at Doc's desk. The woman smiled at Chip, waving her clipboard towards the curtained alcove. "He's been waiting for you since we heard you were aboard. Co on in."

Morton took a deep, imperceptible breath, and moved between the white drapes.

Jamieson was sitting up on a pile of pillows, his breathing still a harsh rattle. His eyes were still blood-shot and his skin was washed out. The intravenous tubing ran down to elbow with the omnipresent drip and he wore a hospital gown. He summoned up a smile as Chip hesitated, then let the drape fall behind him.

"How are you, Mister Morton?"

"Seems to me that I should ask you that, Doc," Morton replied.

The doctor waved a hand. "I've...been better. Markle and Owen... are aboard? "

"Yes. We got them out just in time. The Indians were coming over the hill," Chip said. "I'm sure they'll be up here to say hello."

"If they can get by...Sister Cornell," Jamieson wheezed.

"Owen's a commando. He'll do it." Chip came up beside the bed.

“She… retyped my paper. After you burned the first copy.”

‘Morrison looked embarrassed for a second. “It made a great fire, Doc. We might have frozen to death without it.”

Jamieson chuckled, then coughed. "But retyping it was... beyond the call of duty. What's going on now, Mister...Morton?"

"We're headed for Ascension. After that, well, it depends on the war, doesn't it? If the US is drawn into it, I'm sure we'll be back," Chip said seriously. "The British Task Force is close by."

"Major Owen.... " The doctor struggled with his words. "He saved my...life. Thank him...will you, Chip?"

Morton absorbed this with a flicker of an eye. "I didn't know that. I'll tell him, Doc. Doc?" He bent over in alarm as Jamieson's eyes shut and his head lolled to one side.

A gentle snore greeted his worried question. Chip straightened up with a smile and turned to find Sister Cornell just inside the drapes. "So he'll recover?" Morton asked the nurse, counting on her being honest with him. She hadn't hidden things when they were prisoners.

"He should. It will take a while, though," Cornell answered decisively. "And how are you, Mister Morton?"

"I feel like a glacier just melted off my back," Chip said with a sudden smile. "I didn't know how reluctant I was to face him. "

"You never ran from anything in your life, Charles Morton," she replied quietly. Chip went slightly red at the compliment. "I've heard all about you gentlemen from three different people. None of you run from fights. "

"Which is why, no doubt, you end up in Sick Bay as often as you do," she added with a mischievous smile that lighted her face. "You'd better get upstairs before your Admiral comes looking for you. "

He shot her a formal salute, and walked out buoyantly.

Behind him, Sister Cornell tucked in the top sheet on Jamieson's bed, noting that the man was in a relaxed, restful slumber, and returned to the typewriter to finish making corrections to the manuscript.


	19. May 1, 1982

Markle, Owen, and Sister Cornell were drinking tea in the observation nose as Crane came on duty.

Chip grinned slightly as he looked over his shoulder at the group. "Cookie's on his mark now. Sister Cornell likes his baking," he commented in a low tone.

"Is that why the place smells like a bakery! " Crane joked. "Where's the Admiral! "

"Radio shack. Sparks had a coded message from Ascension," Chip replied, his levity gone.

Crane looked back, seeing Nelson's stocky form studying a slip that Sparks gave him. "Any ideas!"

"Not a one," Morton muttered.

Crane studied the Exec. "And how are you doing now, Chip? No more bloodlust? "

Morton grinned at him. "It got chilled out of me."

"Good. I wasn't sure if I was going to have to hold you back from the first Argentine throat," Lee commented.

Chip shrugged. "We robbed them of the Major and Mister Markle. It balances out. I'd still like to have tracked down Dr. Temple. "

"So would I. I wonder how many others he sold out?" Crane commented.

"The Admiral's coming," Morton warned him.

Nelson waved for them to join him as he walked into the nose and turned to face the crowd, holding up the paper. "Gentlemen, and Sister Cornell, I have important news. " He held up his hand as they turned. "The United States has offered to provide supplies to the British Task Force and invoked limited sanctions on Argentina. Basically, we have finally decided to support the UK, though we won't act offensively. "

Owen grinned. "Still, that'll make the Argies think twice about what they do."

"The base at Ascension has made arrangements for Sister Cornell to fly back to England and for Major Owen to rejoin his forces --

"Back in the Falklands," Markle cracked with a wheeze. Everyone chuckled as the rangy commando shrugged and cracked his knuckles. His expression was pleased.

"And one other thing. " Nelson's tone was grim. They looked at him in puzzlement, Sister Cornell putting down her cup of tea. "As of dawn this morning, the British Task Force bombed the airfield at Port Stanley. The war's started up again. "

"May it soon be over," Owen said, unexpectedly raising his tea cup.

The others raised their cups as well. "Amen, Major, " Sister Cornell said soberly, “Amen.”


	20. July 4, 1982

The Admiral sat at the picnic bench in the shade of a scrubby pine and watched his officers and men playing fast, vicious volleyball on the beach nearby. A few yards away, Sharkey was presiding over the barbecue pit where people were gathered impatiently. On the other side of the park area was an open tent with tables where other members of the Nelson Institute were laughing and joking as they ate hot dogs and drank beer. The annual Fourth of July party was underway under a blistering hot sun set in a sapphire sky. The temperature had soared into the high eighties and most of the men had shed their sport shirts, leaving pale skin to redden with sunburns.

Nelson saw Morton sitting against a palm tree, his chin on his crossed arms as the young man stared at the blue ocean. He had been too late to join the volleyball game at that point, so after getting a drink, Chip had retired to sitting on the sand, waving off with a reserved smile anyone who tried to join him.

What was he thinking? Nelson wondered. The submarine had finally returned to its Santa Barbara home and since then everyone had been kept busy with repairs and catching up. Both Crane and Morton had pulled twelve-hour days and this was the first time Nelson had seen his exec relax since before this last mission.

The Admiral heard a car pull in and looked over at the parking lot. It was Crane's vivid red convertible. As he pulled a pair of crutches from the back, Jamieson hesitantly climbed out of the front seat of the sports car. The doctor's right knee was heavily bandaged and he wore a yellow shirt and light khaki shorts as did Nelson. Crane and Morton wore Hawaiian shirts.

Morton smiled broadly and stood, dusting sand from his shorts. "Doc! "

The volleyball players paused for a second, long enough for the ball to hit Patterson on the shoulder, and several men waved, then the game started again.

Jamieson, with Crane's help, hobbled to the picnic bench and sat down, propping his crutches against the table.

The Admiral moved slightly so he wouldn’t risk hitting the doctor’s bandaged leg. This was the first time they had seen Jamieson since they’d offloaded the sick man in Ascension.

"How are you, Doc?" the Admiral asked.

"What'd you like to drink?" Crane inquired simultaneously.

“An ice tea, thanks.” Jamieson looked around with general approval. “This is a change.”

“Too many hospital walls?” Morton asked sympathetically as he sat down on the other end of the bench. “That rehab hospital starting to close in around you?”

Jamieson grimaced. “Not a place I’d want to visit or practice in, and I’ve got a couple of months to go yet. I have something share with everyone here.”

“Not your resignation, I hope?” Nelson inquired sharply.

"Not this time." The doctor pulled a couple of folded sheets from his shirt pocket. "I got a letter from Sister Cornell. "

Chip smiled broadly. "Great! How's she doing?"

"Let me read it. I think you'll find it fascinating."

The doctor waited until Crane reseated himself, an iced tea in one hand and a beer in the other. He put the tea beside Jamieson.

_Hmm… What’s been happening here? Justin and I returned just after we retook Port Stanley in mid-June. I’m afraid the weather has improved one bit; still cold and nasty with constant drizzle. There were still masses of prisoners in temporary camps. The airstrip had craters and several bombed airplanes ljttering the area. The Argentines also put a lot of mines on the cliffs and, despite what you might have heard, the Marines were not using prisoners to heIp dig them up! That is just a nasty rumor._

“I’d heard that, but from the Argentines,” Nelson commented. “I wasn’t taking it seriously.”

“I can’t see Major Owen allowing it,” said Morton, his chin pillowed on his hand. "Go on, Doc."

"Speaking of the Major... _Major Owen was one of the first to greet us on the jetty when we came ashore. I’m sure he was also the one who got Justin permission to come back right away rather than after the military leaves. He’s looking very well considering he fought his way over most of the West Falkland from the landing at San Carlos_ ,” Jamison grimaced at the memories, “t _o the the retaking of Port Stanley. He didn't get wounded badly enough to be withdrawn. In fact, J believe he's been asked to stay for an extra month to help with the disarmament._ " Doc shook his head. "Owen's not a happy man right now. He wanted off the islands before the attack!"

"He'll probably get a medal out of it," Crane mused.

"I'm glad he made it out alive, though. He's a good soldier," Nelson commented.

 _The hospital was in fair shape when I got back. The British army held a few of the prisoners for interrogation but they were soon sent back._ Which brings me to the enclosed."

Nelson looked at Doc inquiringly, as the officer fumbled in his shirt pocket and brought out a tarnished, battered lieutenant commander's gold oak leaf, which he placed on the table.

_"One of the prisoners was a ColoneI Quadros who recognized my name. He knew the entire story, more in fact than I did, and before he was sent back to Argentina, he asked me to please send this on to you if I should write. He said he regrets that you and Commander Morton were involved at all and he offered his apologies for the actions of Major Roca._

Crane let out a soft whistle. "From what Markle said, Quadros was the man who interrogated him, then let him go."

"There's more to that," Jamieson said. " _Apparently, Colonel Quadros was going to arrest Justin just before Captain Crane rescued him. When they saw your yellow ship fly off the Colonel ordered the troops to return to Port Stanley and went up to the farmhouse to reassure Amy that he wasn't going to arrest her in Justin's stead. From her words, the Colonel was a perfect gentleman, so much so that if he should recover from his injuries, I believe, he might find a new home here in the Falklands. Justin is a little startled by this but Amy is a woman with her own mind."_

"I have a feeling 'Justin' isn't the only one startled," Chip said dryly. "And when did he become 'Justin'?"

"They were calling each other by their first names by the time we tied up at Ascension, " Crane remarked smugly. "And Major Owen was abetting the romance."

"I missed all that," Jamieson commented sourly, flicking an annoyed glare at the crutches.

"What's this with the oak leaf?" Chip cut in, fingering the bent object.

Jamieson laughed. "When I was sick in that hut, a penguin took it off me. Markle said that Quadros showed it to him, so the Colonel must have found it there. So he's just returning it to me with his apologies."

"So, all is well in the South Atlantic!" Crane asked after he took a sip of his beer.

"As far as this goes, yes." The doctor perused the closely-written sheets. "Markle's farm is doing well, he might have a new son-in-law, Owen is still there, the rookery is doing fine and the tourist boats are docking again. Oh, and one other thing which I don't really understand. Who's Charles Temple?"

The Admiral exchanged glances with the others. "He's the person who sold you to Roca," he said bluntly. "Why?"

"Sister Cornell says that Quadros said...let me read it. _The ColoneI asks me to pass on that Charles Temple is somewhere in Uruguay. I don't know who this person is, but he felt that you would know._ "

"Think some of our friends -- " Crane started.

"Like Alex Foster?" Morton needled.

"-- would like to find Mister Temple," Lee finished, glaring at his exec who grinned.

"I think Foster would enjoy meeting up with Temple again. He has a couple of bumps to discuss with him. I'm sure we can pass on that information to interested parties. And speaking of Alex Foster," the Admiral said with a grin, "did you know he got a grant from The Marine Society for his krill studies?"

"He's taking over where Temple left off?" Chip asked.

"He has to redo half the research. Temple was getting sloppy towards the end. Grant sent me the information just last week."

"You didn't have anything to do with that, did you, Admiral? " Crane inquired.

Nelson didn't reply just sipped at his drink with a smug smile.

"Let me finish," Jamieson cut in. " _Thank you very much for the final proof of the article and those boxes of fruit and candy! I'm glad you sent it through the military air command because it might not have made it through the post office. Sweets are in great demand here. I discovered that Major Owen likes dried apricots. He really deserves to go somewhere warm."_

Morton murmured. "Do you think we can suggest his heroism deserves being reassigned to, oh, Santa Barbara?"

"He's a British officer and we can't do a thing," Nelson retorted. "But I wouldn't mind having him on-board as a liaison. At least he can handle anything that's thrown at him!"

Crane nodded approvingly. "There's an idea. Do we need a British liaison?”

"He's overqualified," Morton commented.

" _So, remember, the next time you sail this far south, to bring your submarine up into Port Stanley. Tell Commander Morton that he'll get to see more than just the hospital and a shack_ ," Chip grinned at this, " _and you can visit the rookery and actually see the rockhopper penguins at their best, not their worst! My love to you all, Patricia._ “

"Patricia, huh!" Chip said reflectively. "When are we going south again?”

"No time soon," Crane replied. "We've got repairs for the next few months."

"Besides, haven't you had enough of the South Atlantic for the moment?" the Admiral asked dryly, eyeing the blond man sitting on the end of the bench.

Morton grinned. "It's not so bad underwater, sir!"

Nelson snorted. "Go away, Mister Morton."

"I think Sparks needs some help," Chip suggested, looking at Crane. "He's losing."

"I'll take O'Brien's side," Crane retorted, standing. "Doc, whenever you want to leave, just call. Let’s go, Chip.”

Nelson and Jamieson watched the others join in the game before looking at each other.

"So, how are you really, Doc?" Nelson inquired seriously.

"You've read the report," Jamieson replied in a likewise tone.

"Yes, but I want your professional opinion."

"The frostbite didn't do any permanent damage, though I've got scarring." He held out his hand. The fingers had abrasions on the ends. "No loss of sensitivity, luckily. On my knee, l've got at least three months of rehabilitation before I can be certain that I'll recover enough to walk without a limp. " He flinched slightly as he moved his leg.

The Admiral saw the pain on Jamieson's face, though the doctor masked it swiftly. "So it will three to six months before you come back aboard!"

"More like six. Even then..,. " Jamieson looked over at the players bounding and hitting the ball over the net at each other. Morton had saved one hit by diving for the ball and had sand over most of his front, including his face. He stripped off his floral shirt and tossed it aside. The young man's blue eyes sparkled and he looked the picture of sunburned health. "I'm not sure l'm going to be fit for duty on _Seaview_. "

"Why!" the Admiral asked bluntly.

" My knee may never be strong enough for the kind of duty we get there," Jamieson replied honestly. "You need someone who can maneuver a lot faster — “

"No. I need someone who won't abandon his friend in a war zone to save his own skin," Nelson said, staring the doctor straight in the face. "The Argentines toId me that you could have taken a flight out hoping that Chip would be moved when he was well. You didn't."

Jamieson's face reddened. "He doesn't know that, does he? "

"No. He felt guilty enough that you got hurt that I didn't want him to know more. So, don't go telling me that you're not coming back on _Seaview_! I need you. I don't trust anyone else to pull us through. "

"It all comes back to trust, doesn't it?" Jamieson murmured, his gaze on the game. "Ask me in three months, Admiral. I'll know more then. "

"Your considered medical opinion?" Nelson pressed.

Jamieson shook his head, "You never give up, do you, Harry! I'll come back aboard if I'm healthy enough to satisfy myself!"

“Good, that settles that. I wasn't looking forward to breaking in a new doctor. Now, let me get you something from the food table," the Admiral said briskly, standing up.

"I can come," Jamieson reached for the crutches.

"Not in this sand, " Nelson said brusquely. "Don't move. I don't want you tripping and hurting that knee again. I'll get a couple of plates full. Besides, Doc," he paused for effect, and Jamieson looked up questioningly. "I haven't heard your side of what happened in the Falklands. "

"It's a long story," the doctor said dismissively.

"Good. We have something to discuss on this hot, hot day in July.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note (from 1994) 
> 
> The Falklands/Malvinas war ended June 14, 1982 with the British retaking control of the Islands. 
> 
> I have to thank my GEnie friends, M- T-, who provided a great book on the Argentine side of the conflict, M- M-, who helped with all the medical details, and A- T-, author of --, who told me all  
> about her trip south just after the war and gave me wonderful details on the flora, fauna and surroundings. Special thanks go to TF, who lent me his copy of the Antarctic Manual as well as other Antarctic reports. 
> 
> I thank (multiple people) and my trusty editor, Kathy Agel -- all these people not only edited it but wanted to read more; the best encouragement a writer can have. 
> 
> While I've tried to use the historical reality as an outline for this story, it is, after all, a work of fiction. I couldn't find out the dates for many of the ice stations so I had to work around the problem and I have taken the liberty of adapting various events for my own uses since there was no submarine named  
> Seaview in the Falklands Islands war and no doctor named Jamieson at the King George Hospital with Dr, Daniel and the others. Sister Cornell, Major Roca, Colonel Quadros and many others are totally my creations and not based on any real persons. 
> 
> Editor's Note 
> 
>  
> 
> Trusty editor, here. I promise to keep this short. Honest. 
> 
> When L.C. told me she was going to give Mister Morton cholera in her next Voyage story, I knew it would be an interesting piece. At the time, though, I didn't know just how interesting it would finally turn out to be. The little tidbits she shared with me through Genie E-mail only whetted my appetite for  
> more, and I couldn't wait to get the entire story into my hot little hands. And when she said that the story wanted to be a novel instead of a short story, I jumped for joy! 
> 
> The story has changed significantly since I first saw it, and I have to say that every change has been for the better. It offers a little bit of everything -- action, humor, pathos, and is marked by good characterization throughout. I'm proud to present this as a Below the Surface Special Edition and I think you'll enjoy this as much as I have. 
> 
> Short enough for you!


End file.
